


Playing the Hand You're Dealt

by Nikkusama



Series: Keys and Locks [1]
Category: The Sexy Brutale (Video Game)
Genre: 1920s, Alternate Ending, Drama & Romance, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-16
Updated: 2017-09-19
Packaged: 2018-12-16 02:00:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 28,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11818863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nikkusama/pseuds/Nikkusama
Summary: A year before the events depicted at the end of the Sexy Brutale, Redd Rockridge and Greyson Grayson meet for the first time, employed by the enigmatic Marquis Lucas Bondes.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A short story meandering through their initial meeting, subsequent friendship and, in Redd’s case, emergent feelings.
> 
> Due to the game’s audio and visuals being evocative of the time (albeit rather anachronistic in others), I have set the story in a vague 1925-1929 setting; though the fic isn’t long enough to fully explore the issues of the era, I wanted to at least bring across some of the tone, technology and themes prevalent in Britain during that time.

In the dim light of a single bulb Redd idly thumbed through his book, occasionally pausing his reading to yawn widely. He’d long since lost interest in the story; the words were jumbling before his eyes, the sentences running together to be illegible. He was technically dressed for bed, in a velvet brocade dressing gown and Chatsworth slippers, and by rights should have retired hours ago, but he tried to make a habit of talking to Clay when he got home for work. He argued with himself that it was purely professional, that it helped him prepare for any potential issues overspilling into his shift, but he didn’t deny it was useful, as head croupier, to be abreast of any current rumours floating around. The Marquis attracted gossip and scandal like flies, and Clay often was the first person to have to deal with the fallout. 

Glancing at the clock on the mantelpiece he confirmed that it was long past midnight; despite the distance between their flat on the outskirts of Oxford and the rural _Sexy Brutale_ casino mansion, Clay should have been home by now. Redd wasn’t concerned; after all, as a bouncer Clay knew how to handle himself, but deviations from the routine usually signalled that there was an issue that had warranted his attention…. or he had found a pretty little thing to attempt to flirt with once his shift was over.  

The front door unlocked with a clatter of keys, then opened noisily on old hinges before Clay shuffled into the hall, kicking off his shoes so that they each hit the wall with a _thud_.

“What a fucking night,” Clay muttered in his thick cockney patois. Redd closed his book and placed it carefully on the small table of their tiny living room. With both of them working full time at the _Brutale_ , it made sense for them to share accommodation: Oxford was prohibitively expensive for a young man living alone, though living with his brother had its challenges as well.

“You’re home late,” Redd called, before stifling another yawn. “Did something happen at the casino?” Clay appeared at the doorway, scowling, and having removed his jacket and shoes, sat heavily in a well-worn armchair.

“Nah, nothin’ like that,” Clay said with a grunt. “The boss called a staff meetin’ after the evening shift.”

“Oh? What about?” Redd asked, raising an eyebrow; Clay was easy to read if you knew what you were looking for, and right now there was a raw anger bubbling beneath his seemingly stoic exterior. 

Clay ran a large hand over his shaved head, his fingers raking over his scalp. “We got a new security guy. The boss wanted to introduce ‘im to me and the other bouncers.”

“You don’t seem too happy?”

“I just don’t know what Lucas is fucking playing at!” There it was; the anger began to surface.

“That bad?” Redd sat back in his own chair, and waited for the inevitable storm. Whilst on the job Clay kept his cool, impeccably calm even in the most trying circumstances, but here, in their little flat, he loudly voiced his peeves and annoyances.

“This new guy - I don’t trust ‘im as far as I can _fucking_ throw ‘im.” Clay’s blue eyes were blazing. “Let me tell you - one good thing about my job is that I can smell trouble a mile away, and this bloke reeks of it! He’s a braggart, a no-good upstart, and worse - a fucking common criminal.”

Redd snorted, suppressing a grin at the outburst. To many people Clay was a terrifying figure, with his hulking physique and scarred face cultivated from years of cage fighting, boxing and wrestling, but to Redd he was, and likely always would be, his big brother. 

“You can tell all that from one meeting? I’m impressed!”

“Bruv, you haven’t seen ‘im. Just the way he fuckin’ _stands_ … it’s enough to see that this bloke’ll have the silverware off the table in a second.”

“Lucas wouldn’t have employed him if he thought he was a thief,” Redd said, placidly.

“No?” Clay snapped. “You don’t get it, do you? He’s only gone and hired Greyson _fucking_ Grayson!”

“And who’s he, when he’s at home?” Redd asked, knitting his brows together in thought. The name didn’t ring a bell.

“You are kidding me? Don’t you read the paper? He’s that cat burglar, the one arrested five years ago for tryin’ to steal some priceless artefact from the fucking _Russians_! He’s been in prison for god knows how long, only just released.”

“Oh…”

“Yeah, and now Lucas wants him to go through the security of the mansion and see where the holes are. Check the locks, safes and that. Well, I’ll tell you where the biggest fucking hole is, and it’s right in Lucas’s head!”

“He must have his reasons…”

“I bet it’s ‘cause he finds it ironic. Or funny. Apparently he sought this guy out whilst he was in prison – can you _fucking_ believe it!? It’s bad enough that I’ve got to watch the guests, I can’t be watching the staff an’ all…”

“I’m sure that Lucas is confident that this fellow won’t be your concern-“

“Yeah, I’m sure he thinks that too. Lucas likes scoundrels, on account of bein’ one.” Clay massaged his temples, growling under his breath.

“I can’t argue with you there,” Redd grinned. ”Look, it’s late, and I’m on day shift tomorrow. I’ll keep an eye out, and if I see anything, I’ll let you know.”

“Thanks bruv, appreciate it.”


	2. Chapter 2

Redd quite liked working at the Brutale during the day shift, though it did have its own set of challenges. On the one hand, there was less of a sense of grandiloquent revelry; fewer people drank to excess, which in turn meant fewer alcohol induced issues from partygoers who over-estimated their capacity for liquor and under-estimated the potency of the cocktails from the casino’s world famous _speciality_ bar _._ He rarely had to prevent someone from throwing up on the baize, or patiently come between drunken fisticuffs, or in some of the worst cases, summon his brother to eject someone who thought they had one over on the house – acts which were all too common around the start of the night shift. On the other hand, the main clientele at his table in the middle of the day were the die-hard gamblers, or the ones who had nothing left to lose, down to their last few pounds but desperately trying to win back the thousands they had lost; the atmosphere could quite easily turn frantic, or distraught, in a single hand.

He set up at the blackjack table, relieving the croupier who had drawn the short straw of working through both the small and long hours of the morning, and neatly hung his jacket on a small stand behind his seat. He nodded a greeting to the serving staff as they ensured that the guests had their every need seen to, and sent a customary glance to the security room, aware that Clay’s team were watching.

Despite knowing that the entire room was being monitored, by both the many security cameras adorning the walls and the staff patiently sitting behind the huge one-way glass covering an entire wall, Redd stayed true to his word and kept one eye on the rest of the room for the new hire. Clay wasn’t due to start his shift until Redd knocked off at 4 o'clock, but it couldn’t hurt to gather information for the changeover. 

It was relatively quiet; a few people sat at the roulette table across the way run by one of the clockwork croupiers Sixpence had built, a few more trying their hands at poker, and it was unlikely to get much busier until the evening. A few regulars ambled disjointedly to his table; they were a rather silent lot, who were doggedly throwing good money after bad in an attempt to claim a little of the Marquis’s massive fortune; he knew better than to try and make small talk with them, or crack cheesy and downright terrible jokes – that persona was for the evening.

“Gentlemen, place your bets,” he said, shuffling two decks together. If this were the evening shift, or one of the elaborate masked balls, he would take the time to do a few tricks, making cards waterfall from one hand to the other or spreading them in elaborate fans; the Marquis encouraged flair, and a bit of grandstanding tended to impress revellers, but it was wasted on the tired looking souls sat in front of him.

He signalled for no more bets and dealt the hands.

“House has ten. Mr. Jones, eighteen. What would you like to do, sir? Stay? Very good. Mr. Fletcher, fourteen. Hit? Nineteen. Stay? Very good. Dealer has twenty; the house wins.”

A lone figure strut into the room, and for a moment Redd mistook him for the Marquis; he had the same air of authority, a certain swagger and confidence with every step, his head held high and proud. He looked like man who owned the world, a world in which everything either belonged to him, or if it didn’t, then it soon would be.

Redd knew the type: confident to a fault; often played aggressively and were prepared to lose a fortune on a single bet. It was rare to see them before nightfall and without a drink in hand, but given the Marquis’s varied and eclectic social circles, not totally unheard of.    

“Good afternoon, sir. Can I interest you in blackjack? There’s a seat available.”

The figure turned to look at him and Redd took in a few more details; he was a tall, dark skinned fellow in his late thirties, maybe early forties, bald but with an impressive, impeccably curled and styled beard. He was dressed relatively casually, but the cut of his wide-lapelled jacket, and his gold hooped earrings made him look more than a bit like a pirate. He smirked and sauntered over to the table, and in one fluid movement, pulled out a stool and seated himself.

“You know, I think I might. I’ve been wandering around this blasted place for hours, and I could do with a break. Deal me in.” He slapped a crisp note on the green felt of the baize; Redd swapped it out for a stack of expensive-looking hand carved chips.

“Standard rules, sir; double deck, dealer stands on soft seventeen, double after split allowed,” Redd said, falling into his usual croupier rhythm. The man nodded, and placed his minimum bet on the table. This was unusually restrained for this type of person; perhaps this stranger was testing the waters. Redd dealt the hands to the table.

“House has five. Mr Jones, also five. Thirteen. Eighteen. Are you sure, sir? Twenty-two; bust. Mr Fletcher; Queen. Seventeen. Stay? Very good, sir.” Redd turned to the newcomer, and paused. He politely coughed. “Excuse me, but I don’t believe we have met before. I’m at a loss for your name…?”

“The name’s Grayson. Greyson Grayson.” Internally, Redd smiled, though he didn’t let his expression change from politely indifferent. So _this_ was the chap giving his brother such a headache. He could see where Clay was coming from; he had quite the roguish air about him.

“Mr Grayson, sixteen. Twenty-two, bust. Very bad luck, sir. Perhaps a bit of beginner’s ruin?”

“Just you wait and see. I’ll clear you out yet,” Mr Grayson said, grinning. Redd smiled back, the barest curve of his lips.      

“We shall see about that sir. House has five; Jack makes fifteen, nineteen. House wins.” There was some grumbling from the table, but the newcomer merely placed for his next bet with a smirk; it was substantially larger than his last wager. Here we go, thought Redd, his true colours are about the shine. Mr Grayson seemed to catch his expression.

“I see that look; don’t worry, I know how to look after myself.”  

In a way, the next few rounds played out as expected: Mr Grayson placed increasingly large bets; won on some unlikely hands, and lost on most by going massively bust; but, what was unexpected was his influence on the other two guests seated at his table. It wasn’t as though he was particularly forceful, or goaded them on, but there was just a sheer energy coming from him that was seemingly coaxing the others to join in on his wild playstyle. Mr Fletcher, who usually played so safe, had started to hit on seventeen; Mr Jones, who was usually so careful playing only the minimum bet was matching Mr Grayson’s wager round after round.

“House wins,” Redd said, flipping over his card and revealing an ace. “It’s time for a short break gentlemen. If you are interested in another round please return to the table within thirty minutes.”   

Mr Fletcher cashed out, and after a moment Mr Jones did the same, leaving Greyson and Redd alone at the table. 

“Mr Grayson, I didn’t get a chance to introduce myself before. I’m Redd Rockridge, head croupier here at the _Sexy Brutale_ ,” he extended his hand. Mr Grayson took it and they shook – it was a firmer handshake than Redd expected.

“Call me Greyson.”

“I hear you are our new security expert,” Redd said, shuffling the two decks again, showing off slightly with a few fans and running cuts.

“Word travels fast around here. Wait, Rockridge, did you say? I’ve heard that name before.”

“My brother’s the lead bouncer. I believe you met him yesterday; Clay Rockridge.”

“Ah yes, I recall. Big chap, looks like a shaved gorilla – no offence meant.”

“None taken” Redd said, stifling a grin.

“I remember thinking at the time that he seemed quite a brute, but…” Redd felt oddly caught as he was looked up and down by Greyson’s critical eye, “I’d wager that you’d put him to shame in a fight. How come he’s the bouncer, and you’re the croupier?”

“Croupier and pianist. You wouldn’t be the first to make such an insinuation, but you would be wrong. I have no interest in fighting.”

“Probably for the best. I wouldn’t want to be on _your_ bad side.” There was something about how he talked that confirmed Redd suspicion to like him; it was probably for the same reason he had a bit of a soft spot for the Marquis. There was something about confidence which bordered on arrogance that was appealing to his reticent nature.

“Play your cards right, and you won’t be,” Redd said with a straight face, his eyes were shining in good humour. Greyson looked at him for a second before bursting out laughing. His voice was hearty and rich.

“A card pun? That was terrible!”

“What? I always considered them to be my ace in the hole!”

Greyson continued to laugh; Redd felt encouraged.

“It’s not my only talent you know. I’m a bit of a jack of all trades.”

“Stop, that’s even worse…”

Newcomers were beginning to hover around the table, and Redd felt the need to slip back into his professional guise. He coughed, hiding the laughter in his voice.

“Ladies, gentlemen, please take a seat. The game will resume in a few minutes.” A few people did, one by one until, including Greyson who hadn’t moved, he had a full table.

“Jesus Christ, that passed quickly. Time to go again?”

“Yes… maybe this time you won’t feel that the cards have stacked up against you.”

“Haha, I’ll be the judge of that!”

“I’m sure you will, Greyson. Don’t get lost in the shuffle.”

* * *

 

Redd was surprised at how much he was enjoying himself. It wasn’t that he usually disliked this aspect of his job – after all, he quite liked the day shift- but it did get monotonous sometimes. Greyson was getting quite animated; revelling in his wins and loudly dismaying his losses, and thoroughly comfortable being the absolute centre of attention. After a while Redd began to feel that those vibrant outbursts were for his benefit; something about how Greyson was catching his eye, winking before saying something amusing. Redd tried to maintain an air of professionalism in spite of Greyson’s antics, but occasionally the allure of cracking a terrible pun was too great, especially as Greyson seemed to thoroughly enjoy them.

“Mr Rockridge! May we join?” Two young and rather attractive girls approached the table, urgently whispering to each other. When he looked directly at them they blushed a deep red and giggled. He sighed. it was too early to deal with this type of clientele.

“I’m terribly sorry, ladies, there is no vacancy at present,” he said, preparing to deal the next hand.

“That’s okay! We’ll watch…” one lady purred, taking a step towards him, placing a hand on his arm. He instinctively pulled it away.

“If you wish to play Blackjack another table will open up shortly; until then, please feel free to have a drink at the bar.” They looked at each other, their faces falling.

“Oh! Can’t we stay?” The other tried, her voice low, sultry. Redd opened his mouth to protest, but Greyson cut in, his voice revealing his seemingly shared annoyance.

“You heard the man – shoo!” Greyson said, waving his hands. The ladies tried to plead with their eyes, whilst shooting Greyson daggers. Redd continued with the game, politely ignoring them. They eventually moved along in a huff, supposedly to someone who gave them the attention they sought. He shot Greyson a thankful smile, which was warmly returned. 

"Shall we begin?" 

Before he knew it, it was time for him to knock off for the afternoon.

“And that is time, ladies and gentlemen, if you wish to continue with blackjack, a Sixpence dealer will resume playing in fifteen minutes.” He nodded goodbye to Greyson, who seemed settled in for the afternoon, and picked up his jacket from the small stand behind him.

He headed towards the control room; Clay’s shift would have just started.

It was a deceptively large room, running the entire width of the casino; one wall was the other side of the one way glass, giving a brightly coloured and well-lit view of the casino floor; there was a huge console dominating one corner, from which the staff could manipulate the screen encouraging people to enjoy themselves at the _Brutale_. 

“You found that reprobate, then,” Clay said as Redd entered the control room.

“Greyson? He came to play a few hands at my table.”

“You seemed to be enjoying yourself – whatever he was sayin’ it was makin’ you laugh!”

“He was amusing. He is such a card; I can see why Lucas wanted him to work here.”

“Not you too!” Clay groaned, rolling his eyes.

“Oh lighten up, Clay, he isn’t that bad.” Redd said, grinning.

“Whatever. If I hadn’t had him pegged as a lone worker, I’d’ve thought he was tryin’ to con you. Classic grift, that, have some loud fucker distract the croupier whilst his buddy is swappin’ cards under the table.”

“Was he?” Redd asked, surprised. He was usually good at identifying cheaters; he had no idea why his guard was so down. Clay shuffled uncomfortably in his seat.

“Well… no. I had the lads keepin’ special watch, too. But if he ever steps outta line I’ll haul his arse out onto the street faster that you can say Jack Robinson.”

“My shift’s over so I’m going to get a drink. You’re on until midnight, right? Shall I wait for you?” Redd said, changing the subject. He felt a bit foolish; he could feel his cheeks burning.

“Nah, it’s the weekend. I’m going to see if I can work my charms on one of the lovely ladies here, maybe one of the girls you were ignorin’ whilst having a joke with your new best friend.” Redd ignored the jab and shrugged. “Look, Redd, why don’t you try it? Hell, you got all of mum’s good looks, I bet you can pick up any bird you wanted. And let me tell you - the ladies here certainly like _you._ The cameras pick up their talk, and you should hear that they say about your-”

“No, thank you,” Redd interrupted. “I want to keep work and leisure separate.”

“You’d be hard pressed to find more gorgeous women than in here, bruv. Lucas sure knows how to pick ‘em.”

“I’m sure he does,” Redd said, neutrally. This was a track Clay had gotten onto before, and he didn’t want to encourage him. It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate the effort – Clay was only trying to look out for him, get him settled down- but it just didn’t seem right, somehow. It felt dishonest.

“Oh, I got a bit o’ news for you. Speaking of our wonderful employer, word is that he’s dumped your singer friend.” Clay said, waggling his heavy eyebrows suggestively.

“…what?” Redd asked, genuinely shocked.

“Yeah; he’s completely taken with that clocksmith’s niece, real fine-looking girl, I’m told. Left Miss Belle absolutely ‘eartbroken.” Clay said, with emphasis.

“Oh…”

“So you’ve got a chance! Why don’t you go to see her, be all “there, there, Miss Tequila” and use your fancy words to charm her knickers right off,” Clay said, spelling it out as if Redd didn’t quite get what he was hinting at. Redd shook his head.

“Don’t be disrespectful,” he reproached.

“I don’t mean no disrespect to her. She seems nice enough: you two have a lot in common, music and the like. And she’s a stunner. You aren’t tellin’ me that nothin’ happens when the two of you are alone in that practice room…”

“We have a working relationship, nothing more. As I said, I want to keep work and leisure separate.”

“Sure.” Clay winked, and Redd fought the urge to roll his eyes. He knew Clay meant well, but, really, he could sort out his own love life. And as for Tequila; he _was_ incredibly fond of her, but… it wasn’t like that. He never got any vibe from her other than uttermost professionalism, which he’d repaid in kind. That said, it wouldn’t hurt to check in on her, make sure she was okay. The annual grand celebration was coming up at which she would certainly be a guest; he’d make sure to see her then.

“Right, I’m going to get that drink. Don’t be too late?”

“Hah, no promises.” Clay said, turning back to the monitor.

* * *

 

Redd walked into the bar. It was at that point in the afternoon when the _Brutale_ was really starting to pick up pace; yet, despite the throng of bodies, occasionally there would be a chill in the air that bordered on unearthly. He pushed his way through the crowd – not an issue with his size – and leant heavily on the counter.

“What can I get you, Redd?” The bartender asked, picking up a lowball glass, anticipating the answer.

“Whatever he’s having make it two. My treat,” a voice said before he could answer. The bartender nodded and began to make two Old Fashioned cocktails, with a signature _What’s your Poison_? twist. Redd half turned and saw Greyson casually leaning on the bar next to him. He wasn’t a short man, in fact his rather gracile figure was accentuated by his long limbs, but like most people he was much shorter than Redd. He looked up at him as if realising the fact for the first time. “Bloody hell, you didn’t look half as big when you were sat down.”

“I get that a lot,” Redd said, smiling. The bartender placed two drinks in front of them. “Thanks for the drink.”

“On the house, sirs.” The bartender said, handwaving Greyson’s monetary offering. “Enjoy your evening.” 

“Now that’s service. Doesn’t quite make up for the cash I lost to you earlier, though. Christ, it’s crowded in here. Let’s grab the drinks and go somewhere quieter. I want to have a chat.”

“Sure, follow me.” Redd grabbed his drink, took a decent gulp of the liquid to prevent it from spilling, and led them upstairs to the music rooms. There were plenty of spaces to enjoy a quiet drink in there, as he well knew from his rehearsal sessions with Tequila, away from the hubbub of the casino. Unless, that is, Tequila was due to perform; then the place was packed with her admirers.

Once seated in a cool and quiet room, surrounded with dormant musical instruments and books of manuscript, Redd sat back in the plush chair, resting one ankle on his knee.

“So, for what do I owe the pleasure? Did you enjoy my jokes that much?”

“Can’t a man get to know his fellow colleagues?” Greyson asked, sipping his cocktail with the air someone who had all the time in the world. Redd shrugged and took a drink himself. There were worse ways to spend an evening, though Clay would be disappointed that he wasn’t spending it with a girl.

A moment passed in silence.

“Okay, so there was a reason I asked you here.” Greyson casually stroked his beard, his eyes dancing.

“Oh?” Redd raised an eyebrow.

“What do you know about the treasures here in the mansion?”

Clay’s warning echoed through Redd’s mind’s ear; he chose his words very carefully in response.

“Very little; I just play cards. Or play for Miss Belle.”

“ _I’m_ hired to check security on all of the treasure, artefacts, relics and objects of worth in this place. I figured a guy like you would have information on said pieces, especially during those parties Lucas holds.”

“Afraid not. It’s my brother you need for that sort of knowledge. Like I said, I just play cards or the piano.”

“So you don’t even know _what_ Lucas has hidden away here?”

“Sorry.”

“Shame,” Greyson said, shrugging. He made to finish his drink, knocking it back in a fluid motion. Redd felt a little annoyed with himself for cutting their exchange so short; he tried to salvage the conversation.

“Earlier, at the table, you said that you’d been through the mansion – did you not find anything then?”

Greyson didn’t say anything for a second; there was a glint in his eye as he placed his empty glass on the table.

“I found a few safes so easy to crack it was like turning a doorknob. Not that there isn’t a lock in the world I can’t open, but these were embarrassingly easy. Don’t get me wrong, the items inside were worth something… but they weren’t the big pieces.”

It couldn’t hurt to tell him what he actually knew, Redd thought. It would hardly enough to incriminate himself if it turned out Greyson was nothing more than a con-artist thief.

“Now that I think about it…” Redd said, running a hand through his thick hair in thought. Greyson looked attentive, grinning slightly. “I’m not surprised you didn’t find anything. You don’t often see the _rare_ treasures in the _Brutale_. Sure, some things you see every day are impressive, especially those new Carrington statues popping up everywhere, but the things you’re probably looking for... I only ever hear the clientele talking about them during the parties, when the mansion is open and they’ve had a chance to wander.”

“Aren’t they are locked away?”

“During the parties? No. The opposite, in fact – I think they are specially brought out of storage to be shown off. Lucas has them put behind glass so the guests can view them.”

“And what sort of things do they mention?”  

“I can’t remember.” Redd said, deflecting the question. He thought a moment, before adding: “There’s a party due in a few days and the Marquis will have his possessions on display then. I’m sure you’ll be able to see first-hand.”

“Oh, mark my words, I will be paying close attention.” 

“What’s all this, Greyson? You’ve barely been here a day, and you’re already grilling my best croupier about my treasures?” A baritone voice with a clipped upper-crust accent purred from the shadows. It was quickly revealed to belong to a smartly-dressed figure emerging from one of the practice rooms, a champagne glass in one hand and a few pages of manuscript in the other. Redd blushed as the Marquis casually promenaded towards them, grinning like a shark. 

“Lucas, you sly dog, you have me all wrong,” Greyson said, beaming as their employer approached. He stood up and Redd watched as the two of them shook hands and laughed as though they were old friends. Perhaps they were; Lucas had an extremely wide social circle. “I was merely having a chat with young Mr Rockridge here.”

“A chat specifically about items of great worth, what they are, where they will be in a few night’s time; an expected conversation for a thief, but not a usual topic for someone whose job is to keep me rich and Tequila accompanied. If it’s all the same to you, I’d like to keep it that way.” Redd saw pointed look in the Marquis’s dark eyes; he nodded in understanding. This was not for him to get involved with. 

“You wound me, sir! I wouldn’t dream of leading such a fine upstanding gentleman astray. But, since you are here, would _you_ like to tell me exactly what it is I am supposedly testing the security for? A man could only do so much if he doesn’t know what is being protected...” 

The Marquis was grinning in a way that made Redd feel uneasy, though he couldn’t figure out why. Greyson, on the other hand, looked perfectly comfortable, standing proud with his chest puffed out as he waited for an answer; an answer he fully expected to get. 

“Finding out what great fortune I have stashed away is all part of the fun!” the Marquis laughed, though Redd heard little humour in his voice. “After all,” he said, leaning forward conspiratorially, “ _something_ has to be worth all the money I spent dealing with foreign dignitaries, translators and meddlesome customs officials.”

Both men laughed once more, though Redd noticed a shift in Greyson’s demeanour, a sharp focus that wasn’t there before.

“Lucas, do you mean-“

“You’ll have to find out,” the Marquis said, beneath his angular goatee his grin was impossibly wide. “But I must say, my newest addition it wasn’t cheap; if it weren’t for good people like Redd here stopping my guests from bleeding the casino dry I would be having many a sleepless night. _Dasvidaniya_ , gentlemen.”

Redd watched as the Marquis left humming a snippet of a song under his breath; before vanishing into the next room he pointedly looked back to the two of them with a smile. Next to him Greyson was buzzing with excitement.

“Did you hear that!?” Greyson said, sitting down excitedly. He picked up his empty glass, and put it down when he realised he’d already drunk the contents. It clattered on the table, his hands shaking that much. 

“Yes?”

“The egg! It’s here…”       


	3. Chapter 3

It was the day of the party, the annual grand celebration at the _Sexy Brutale_. The mansion’s doors were closed to casual guests and mere _acquaintances_ of the Marquis, and instead open solely for the crème de la crème, the honoured and esteemed close friends and people of great importance. The grounds were open for these guests to wander where they pleased; Redd could count on one hand the total number of locked doors, most of them for safety reasons rather than concealing a secret. The Marquis was adamant about that; this was the opportunity, he said, for his nearest and dearest to glimpse the rare treasures in his possession, to read the unusual books in the library, see exclusive death-defying acts of magic and illusion on the stage, or indulge their vices, whatever they may be, at the bar, the casino, or in one of the ornate and lavish bedchambers.

One particular highlight, of course, was the opportunity to see Tequila Belle sing in a cosy, intimate lounge, instead of the grand theatres of the West End. Redd had been asked, once again, to play for her; it was a privileged role, and one he has happy to accept.

He arrived at the _Brutale_ a little before noon, and headed straight to the music room to prepare for rehearsal. As he made his way through the ground floor a few guests had already arrived, keen to start festivities early; he greeted them appropriately. It was easy to differentiate between guests and staff from a distance as those _invited_ all wore ornate and bespoke masquerade masks, tailor made for them and fitting of their personalities. He had nothing of the sort; he was technically staff, the same as Clay, the servers, the bartenders. Regardless, he was dressed in his best: perfectly pressed wool-and-silk trousers; leather brogues polished until they shone; linen shirt; and a paisley silk cravat. He’d even had a haircut for the occasion, styling his thick chestnut hair into neat short back and sides.

He made his way to the first floor, passing: the guest bedrooms; the aquarium filled with exotic fish and creatures from the largely unexplored depths of the ocean; the artists’ studio which had a few new pieces in it since the last time he walked through; until, finally, he was in the music chamber. There was an entire wing on the first floor committed to those inclined to play musical instruments, but more often than not the rooms were solely used by Tequila; there was even a room dedicated to her time as a protégé, listing her awards and achievements in gilded frames.   

Her main performance wasn’t until 9 o'clock, with some casual warm-up songs starting a little earlier, so Redd had lots of time to perfect his score. The lounge was dark and eerily silent; there was something inherently wrong about a music room being that quiet. He fumbled for the light switch and the lounge was bathed in a soft light; spotlights focussed on both the stage and the sleek _Steinway & Sons_ grand piano. He seated himself, adjusted the seat to accommodate his long legs, and began to practice his scales, loosening his fingers, getting them used to the feel and weight of the ivory keys.

He looked up as Tequila entered the room; she was dressed in pale blue silk, floor length and split from her thigh to her ankle. Her hair was softly curled, and a gold-and-blue mask adorned in musical notes covered the upper portion of her face. Despite the covering it wouldn’t be diplomatic to say that she had been crying; the delicate skin around her eyes, visible through the mask’s eye-holes, were slightly red, and when she spoke there was the barest of cracking in her musical voice.

“Redd, how have you been?” She asked in her Southern drawl, approaching his piano and extending her silk-gloved hand. He took it, and kissed the back of her palm.  

“Miss Belle, it is always a pleasure. I’ve been well; and yourself?” It was a bit of a loaded question, but it needed to be asked. He and Tequila weren’t that close in the traditional sense, but she had, on occasion over a few drinks, opened up to him about some intimate details about her life; this had included her feelings for the Marquis. 

“… I suppose you’ve heard?” She asked, looking away, not meeting his eye. He sighed, lowering his head.  

"I'm afraid I had heard a rumour, yes. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It was so… so stupid. I was so silly to think… to hope…” her voice broke off as she caught herself from crying. Redd stood up from the piano. He extended a hand and gently rubbed her exposed shoulders. She let out a small wail and buried her face into his broad chest, made slightly awkward by the mask she was wearing.  

“Miss Tequila, please don’t cry,” he said, patting her perfectly coifed hair, feeling at a loss of what he was supposed to do. He pulled away, trying to look her in the face.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” she weakly protested, keeping her head bowed. “Oh please don’t fuss! I just want to sing, forget about it all.” She looked up at him and let out a wan smile, before waving him away.

“If you’re sure…” With a concerned frown Redd sat back at the piano. He idly played a simple melody with his right hand, the left resting in his lap as he kept a careful eye on her. Tequila smiled and wiped away an imperceptible tear.

“I’m sure. I want to forget about him, Redd. Or at least, forget how I’m feeling.”

“Shall we sing something happy, then, to chase away those tears?” Redd asked, bringing his other hand to the keys to play a jaunty tune. “Or perhaps something sad and self-indulgent?” he segued into a sombre piece, all minor chords and a soft lilting melody. “Or, perhaps the ultimate catharsis, something angry and powerful?” he hammered on the keys, making the room ring with energy.

Despite herself, Tequila laughed.

“Oh Redd, you do know how to cheer me up. Something happy, please. For warm up. I can’t sing with my voice full of tears.” Redd nodded and acquiesced, shifting his melody back to something light, carefree. 

“Tequila Belle, your voice has brought many people to tears – it is only fair that you are as much a victim of your talents… how is this?”

“Perfect, thank you.”

She walked to the microphone and began to sing to his melody. It was a simple song, with an easy range of notes for her to hit; it didn’t take long for her voice to take the song into its stride and begin to add depth.

At these points, without an audience, just the two of them, Redd felt that he could experiment. Just as Tequila would practice to hit the ever elusive diamond note, he would stretch his ability; playing entirely by ear he would dance his fingers over the keys, mixing tempo and pitch, simple and complex melodies. Sometimes it sounded discordant, but it was through their harmony – her voice, his piano – that they would compose some of their best pieces. Of course, it was nothing compared to the songs Tequila came out with following her sessions with the Marquis, but for Redd they were some of the greatest things he had ever produced.

The song ended, Tequila holding the last note until the piano faded away.

“My, that was more energetic than I’m used to for a practice run. You excited about something, darlin’?”

“Me, oh, no, I don’t think so? No more than usual.”

“It’s not a criticism; why, it almost made me forget about how wretched I feel.”

“Then I’m doing my job,” he said, grinning at her. He emphasised his words with a little jingle on the piano.

“And what job is that?“ Tequila asked, her voice all honey and sweetness.

“Making you feel your damned best,” Redd said with a wink. 

“Oh, aren’t you a sweetheart. But, Redd, are you flirting with me?”

Redd looked surprised.

“Oh, no, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to-“ Tequila’s face closed slightly, her smile faded. He mentally cursed, and tried to backtrack. “I mean, I want you to feel better. Want to see you smile. ‘Cause I’d like to think I’m your friend.”

“A friend. A friend. Yes, of course you are. You so patiently listened to me talk on and on about Lucas, like a friend would.” There was a disappointment in her voice.

“Don’t you go getting all despondent again, otherwise I’ll have to play something silly.” He began to play another light-hearted tune, but this time Tequila didn’t smile. “No? Do you want to stop?”

“Maybe we should get on with our rehearsal,” Tequila said, facing away from him. Redd frowned, but began to play through their usual repertoire. He played a few of her showstoppers, barely pausing between pieces, but Redd could tell her heart wasn’t in it, that she was just going through the motions even as she hit the highest of notes. When he reached one of the newer refrains, Tequila stopped dead, leaving him to play on alone.

He looked over to her; her head was bowed, her hands clutched to her chest, over her heart.

“No, not this one. I can’t,” she said, meeting his eye, pleading with him to stop. He took his hands away from the keyboard mid note. He stood up, stepping away from the piano entirely.  

“Let’s stop for a bit, then. Get a drink. Is that okay with you?”

“It’s fine.”

Redd shot her a concerned glace, before making his way to the dressing room and rang the staff bell. It would be quicker than going down to the bar himself, especially as guests would be starting to arrive in earnest by now.

Once back in the lounge, he gestured for Tequila to join him at one of the tables; she slowly walked from the stage as if she were part of a funeral march. Within moments, one of the serving staff appeared and took their order before vanishing back from here he came.

“Are you alright?” Redd asked, his blue eyes meeting hers. She looked away.

“Yes. No. I can’t go into it… it’s too painful.”

“You might feel better if you talk about it,” Redd offered. Tequila maintained her composure, but Redd could see she was fighting some sort of internal battle.

“It’s nothing. Really. I thought… I thought Lucas had feelings for me… but… he only has eyes for her….”

“Her?”

“Reginald’s niece. Her name is Eleanor, I think. He introduced me to her; can you believe it!”

“I’m sorry.”

“I was in love with him and…and-“ she brought a silk-gloved hand to her lips and bit back a cry. “It’s stupid, but… I thought I was special to him. That I meant more… more than the other girls he brought to the _Brutale._ But, I was wrong…”

“Tequila…”

“Sorry… I…”

From the shadows the serving staff returned, a silver tray balanced on one hand, a cloth resting on his forearm. He placed two glasses of water onto their table, followed by a glass of brandy each, before bowing slightly and leaving them to their conversation.

Tequila took her glass and knocked it back in one clean shot. Redd took a sip of his, following it with a sip of water. He didn’t want to get tipsy before the big show.

They sat in silence for a while, before Tequila sighed.

“I thought about cancelling tonight’s show, you know. I went to see Lucas and told him that I couldn’t possibly perform, but he wouldn’t have any of it. He gave me that look, that sincere, soul piercing look, and said that he was counting on me, and… I couldn’t turn him down. It cut right through me, as if it were a knife. Or glass. Despite everything, I couldn’t say “no” to him.” She turned to Redd, her blue eyes wide, her white teeth biting her peach-hued lips. “Do you think I’m a fool? Because certainly I do.”

“No. No, I don’t. I think you care about him a lot, despite the Marquis acting like an utter beast.”

“Oh, Redd…” she laughed, and the laugh turned into a sob.

“It’s true. Please don’t cry – here, please take my handkerchief - As much as I respect him… I’m sorry you had to go through this.”         

“And Redd… I need to be clear; you don’t… feel anything for me… do you? Beyond being a friend?”

“I’m fond of you, but no. I’m sorry.”               

“Well, I’m glad you were honest with me,” she said, wiping away a tear. “It’s probably for the best you don’t because right now I don’t think I have any love left to give.” She let out a little cough, and looked over to the piano on stage. “So, shall we get back to rehearsal? It’s not long before my performance and I’ll be damned if I won’t make it my best one to date.”           

* * *

 

Tequila had been stunning: from the moment she stepped back on to stage and began to sing; as guests began to arrive to watch her pre-show warm up; and then as she began to perform, she was portrait-perfect in her poise and ability. There was barely a dry eye after one of her heart-breaking arias, and her jauntier folk songs she’s learned in her childhood at the house in uproar with laughter; even the usually dour Thanos Gorecki was holding his sides and laughing behind his mask. She utterly controlled the room; whatever emotion she sang, the guests couldn’t resist mimicking the sentiment. Tequila had stayed true to her word; it was one of her best performances, and once she had finished there was a standing ovation, everyone calling for an encore, their voices undoubtedly echoing throughout the mansion. From his seat behind the piano Redd noticed that the Marquis, and by extension, Eleanor, had been absent for the concert; he was sure Tequila noticed too.

After the show, once he’d completed a thorough debrief and tidied around the piano, Redd headed down to the ballroom, satisfied at being able to navigate such an emotionally charged evening. Tequila had retired to her room, citing exhaustion.  

He quietly opened the grand double doors to the ballroom and gently closed them behind him; the party here was in full swing, with dancing and drinks aplenty. Many of the guests he recognised from being in Tequila’s audience, some of them excitedly bragging about being privy to the performance of a lifetime. 

“Gods man, you weren’t kidding when you said you could play,” a familiar voice said from his side, proffering him a drink. He gladly accepted, swilling the spicy, bitter and very _alcoholic_ liquid around his mouth. This was the good stuff.

“You were at Tequila’s revue? I didn’t spot you,” Redd asked, taking another drink and casting his mind back to the performance. Like him, Greyson had similarly dressed up for the occasion, wearing a tailored green suit with matching bowtie, but like the other staff wasn’t wearing a mask.   

“Of course you didn’t. I’m stealthy as a cat when I want to be,” Greyson said, taking a sip of his own drink.

“In that getup? Of course,” Redd said, but stopped himself short of a quip. He only met Greyson a few days ago; it would be rude to be too sarcastic about Greyson’s apparent bombastic and attention-attracting personality. Still, he genuinely hadn’t spotted him nor felt his presence during the show; perhaps the aforementioned personality was a mask in its own right, which he could discard if it was necessary.

“Mr Grayson, may I have this dance?” a rose-silk clad woman asked coquettishly as she approached the two of them, a fan in one hand, and a gilded mask concealing her face. Redd idly wondered if this was the elusive Eleanor, but a moment’s glance across the room made him suspect not; standing next to Lucas, who was looking dashing in a military uniform and plague-doctor mask, was one of the most beautiful people Redd had ever seen. The woman was tall, pale with long red hair, but despite her statuesque appearance she had the most delicate and feminine features. He only glimpsed her face before she put on her a white-feathered dove mask.

“Of course! Redd, hold my drink!” Redd awkwardly took the glass as it was thrust into his hand and watched as Greyson enthusiastically led the lady across the dancefloor.

Redd had to hand it to him, Greyson could dance; he bounced his hips to the rhythm, his footwork was flawless, and the woman squealed in delight as she was lifted, dipped and swung around to the fast beat.

They were garnering attention from the other guests; Redd watched as the other party-goers made way for Greyson and his partner, clearing the dance floor to really let him show off; Greyson, in turn, saw the opportunity and took it, firmly placing himself at the centre of attention.

As the song ended, there was thunderous applause, and a swarm of women approached, ditching their partners and begging him for the next dance.

“It seems you have skills beyond locks, Greyson,” Lucas called with a laugh, his voice cutting over the music; “I’d better watch out, lest you steal my darling Eleanor from me!” There was general laughter from the crowd, and Redd felt himself smiling as Greyson bowed and winked and charmed anyone within a ten foot radius.

Another dance; another delighted lady. This one was so bold as to try to seal the dance with a kiss, much to the obvious annoyance of her partner who was sulkily watching them from the edge of the dancefloor. Greyson was either oblivious to it, or didn't care; he continued with his flirtatious charm until she leaned up to whisper into his ear. Redd didn't need to guess the nature of the conversation, though it mildly surprised him to see Greyson shake his head and excuse himself, his fun apparently over.  

He returned to the edge of the hall, much to the dismay of the lady, and the next in line to dance with him.

“Lucas certainly knows how to throw a party,” he said, retrieving his forgotten drink from Redd’s hand. The ice had long since melted, but he gulped it down regardless. Beneath his beard Redd could see that his cheeks were slightly flushed, but whether from delight or exertion he wouldn't want to assume.

“And you’ve become the life and soul of it, and that is with the Marquis in the room. I’m impressed.”

“Aren’t you going to dance?”

“Me? No; I have absolutely no rhythm.”  

“You’re joking? I don’t know how to can say that with a straight face. You’re a pianist for Christ’s sake! I’ve just watched two hours of you demonstrating timing, cadence and musical competence… and you say you can’t dance!”

“Maybe one day I’ll demonstrate just how bad I am. I dance like a dog – with two left feet!”

“That’s terrible. Even worse than your card puns,” Greyson groaned, nudging him with his elbow.

“I know,” Redd grinned.

“Mr Grayson!” A young woman exclaimed, her voice shrill over the music. ”Lydia has told me all about you! Would you please do me the honour…?”   
  
Greyson seemed to contemplate the invitation for a moment, glancing at Redd before turning to the girl with a winning smile. 

“Of course! All the time I spend here drinking is time I’m not spending dancing!” Greyson placed his empty glass down and allowed himself to be dragged back to the centre of the marble floor


	4. Chapter 4

The party had unquestionably been a resounding success; Redd could always rate these things by how quiet the mansion was the next day when most people, including the Marquis, were nursing one hell of a hangover. The butlers and other assorted staff were kept busy, running from the kitchen to the guest bedrooms with bottles of iced water, painkillers, and cool flannels for aching heads and upset stomachs.

The casino, by virtue of everyone being holed up in their rooms, was almost deserted; Redd was so mind-bogglingly bored he contemplated calling his shift early and letting one of the macabre automatons take over. He opted, instead, to go for a walk for the umpteenth time that afternoon, and after completing a circuit consisting of the casino and the bar, paid Clay a visit in the security room.

Clay was sat at his desk surrounded by empty cups of coffee and an abandoned half-eaten sandwich, occupying himself by building a house of cards. He didn’t even glance up when Redd came into the office.

“Afternoon,” Redd said in greeting, yawning and stretching his back. His shoulders popped with a satisfying crack. “I’m bored rigid; I don’t know how you have the patience to sit and watch that room all day.”

“Well, usually there are people to keep it interestin’. I dunno why we bothered opening today– it ain’t like anyone’s in the mood to gamble, and I’d be surprised if half of ‘em have any money left after last night.” With extreme concentration Clay picked up two more cards and tried to balance them on the top of the tower; a small tremor from his hands sent the entire thing flying. He grunted and knocked the rest of the stack over, scattering cards everywhere.

“I didn’t hear you get home last night; did you have a good time?” Redd asked, with only the slightest reference to his brother’s penchant towards impropriety. He knelt to pick up cards which had fallen near his feet.

“Nah, not really. I ain’t even been home yet, and not for the good reason.”

Redd blinked in surprise.

“Why? I didn’t notice any security issues; everyone was irreproachably behaved at Tequila’s performance.”

“You wouldn’t ‘ave,” Clay said, with meaning, “ _you_ were distracted, on account of playin’ the piano at the time. Someone took the opportunity to rifle through one of Lucas’s private offices.”

“When did that happen?” Redd took a seat on one of the wheeled chairs near the television monitor, and through force of habit began shuffling the cards he’d retrieved from the floor, turning them over and over in his hands.

“At about ten o’clock, I reckon, whilst everyone was watching the show,” Clay said, rasping his fingers over his stubble. “Probably right in the middle of Tequila’s big finale.”

“Did anyone see anything?”

“Nah, and the cameras got nuffin’ neither. But that don’t mean I don’t know _exactly_ who the culprit is!”

“What do you mean?”

“Look, bruv, every single bloody safe was left wide open, but nuffin’ was taken, as if _someone_ was tryin’ to prove a point,” Clay said, pointedly scowling at Redd with an “I-told-you-he-was-trouble” look. Redd felt his face grow warm.

“So... what are you going to do?”

“Me? Nuffin. I mean, I did my job; reported it to Lucas first thing this morning, including naming the suspect, but he’s hungover as balls and didn’t care. Said to me “it’s not a crime to open safes”, and told me to drop the matter.” Clay picked up two cards and began, once more, to construct his house of cards.

“I see,” Redd said as he continued to fidget with the cards in his hands.

“He’s looking for you, by the way.”

“Lucas?”

“No, idiot. I already told you, _he’s_ in bed regretting his booze decisions. Greyson. Had the fucking cheek to come in ‘ere this morning before your shift, asking where you were. I told him to fuck off, so I dunno where he went.”

“Right.” Redd knitted his eyebrows together in pensive bewilderment. Greyson was looking for _him_ … for some reason the very idea made his heart beat a little faster, either through anticipation… or, more likely, he reasoned, given how Clay was glaring at him, mild apprehension. “I’d better go see what he wants.”

He stood up and placed his cards in a neat stack on the table. Clay grabbed his wrist as he made to leave.  

“I’d go back to your table, if I were you, so I can keep an eye on you.”  

* * *

 

Greyson was surprisingly difficult to find; Redd thought that he’d covered every inch of the mansion, currently occupied bedchambers notwithstanding, and he’d yet to even glimpse him. He’d even checked the little nooks and crannies in his search: the wine cellars beneath the bar; the storage rooms in the theatre; the ornate garden currently undergoing a construction project requiring a few tonnes of marble. He was running out of places to look.

In the end he stumbled into him purely by accident, just as he’d been about to abandon his search and head back to his forsaken table at the casino.

“There you are!” Greyson exclaimed from the top of the _Heaven and Hell_ staircase, calling down to him. “I’ve been looking for you.”

“I was coming to find you.”

Redd waited patiently as Greyson hurriedly descended the stairs, his eyes shining with fervour and looking slightly out of breath.

“Come with me!”

“Where are we going?” Redd asked, needing to stride to keep up with Greyson’s pace.

“To the library, of course!” Greyson grinned, looking back over his shoulder, enthusiasm radiating from him in waves.  

“Of course.”

The library was deserted, and as with many rooms in the mansion, was uncannily cold; Redd wasn’t sure if he believed in ghosts, but rooms like this certainly swayed his thinking towards the possibility. It was silent in the way only a library could be, as if the books themselves stole noise away, leaving behind only hushed whispers.

Greyson targeted a seemingly ordinary bookcase at one end of the large room; he ran his hand over the edge of it, pulling _here_ and pressing _there,_ ostensibly confident in his outwardly random-looking actions.

“What are you doing?” Redd asked softly, unwilling to raise his voice and break the unwritten rule of silence.

“I want to show you something,” Greyson said, concentrating on the task at hand. He didn’t bother to temper his voice, seemingly unbothered by how the rich sound echoed and reverberated in the hush of the library. “I was following a little trail I’d managed to piece together from Lucas’s receipts and- Ah HA! Bingo!”

There was an audible _click_ as some mechanism was sprung, allowing the entire case to be pushed to one side, exposing a small tunnel.

“Did you know that was there?” Redd asked, taking a few hesitant steps forward to peer into the revealed gloom.

“This place was built by _Thanos Gorecki_!” Greyson said, as if that went some way to explain the situation. He saw Redd’s blank expression and theatrically sighed before elaborating. “He’s a bugger for putting in tunnels and crawl spaces into the schematics at the best of times, but a _secret passage_ _behind the bookcase in the_ _library_? He wouldn’t have been able to resist. He thinks he’s so clever! The old nuisance… he’s so predictable. Probably reads too many penny dreadfuls.”

“I had no idea,” Redd said, impressed. “Do you think there are more?”

“Absolutely! And we are going to find them all!”

“ _We_ are?” Redd grinned. The thrill of discovery was undeniable; he felt his heart beating quicker, enthralled as to what would happen next, what they would find. Greyson’s company ameliorated the experience too; just standing next to him made Redd feel absolutely electric, as if his entire body was charged, rejuvenated. He was  _enjoying_ himself too much to heed his brother’s advice.

“Hmm, the bookcase on an automated pulley… with counterweights and mechanisms… this looks like Reggie’s handiwork,” Greyson muttered as he examined the complex network of cogs and moving parts.

“Mr Sixpence?”

“Yep, the one and only. He doesn’t recognise his own genius half of the time. If you ask me he’s wasted making those clockwork monstrosities in the casino. You know the ones; they look like Death and crack worse jokes than you do.”

“I think they’re amusing.”

“…that doesn’t surprise me, given _your_ sense of humour,” Greyson smirked. “Anyway, the locks he makes are, quite frankly, inspired in their design… of course, far too easy for a master locksmith like _me_ to crack, but far more interesting than your usual fare.”  

“So, what now?”

“Now I’m going to investigate that little hidey-hole, and you are going to stand guard and let me know if someone comes.”

“Okay...”

Greyson grinned and slapped Redd on the back.

“That’s the spirit! I knew you were the trustworthy sort from the moment I saw you.” Greyson climbed into the hole in a fluid cat-like movement, expertly navigating the cramped space and disappearing into the darkness. Redd tried to watch where he went, but lost him in the pitch-blackness in an instant.

A few moments passed and, after the initial muted sounds of Greyson crawling deeper in to the wall, the library once again grew silent. It felt even colder now, as if there was a terrible draft coming from somewhere; Redd could see his own breath as frosty puffs of air. He rubbed some warmth into his arms.

“Redd? REDD?” he heard Greyson call from curiously far away.

“Yes? I’m here,” he called back, hearing his voice echo off of the stone walls. .

“Good, I thought you’d got bored and wandered off.” Greyson’s voice was muffled, distorted; Redd had to strain his ears to hear him properly.

“Where are you?”

“Behind the wall… of what looks to be a trophy room! There’s a juicy looking safe in the corner just begging for me to open it.”

“Can you see what you’re looking for? The egg, wasn’t it?” Redd wracked is brains as to which room Greyson could possibly be talking about – he never knew the Marquis even hunted, never mind had a room dedicated to it.

“No, but… that safe-“

There was a silence and a shuffling, followed by a loud mechanical SNAP, and, after a second, a yell.

“Greyson! Are you okay? What happened!?”

“What the hell is that?!” He heard Greyson shout.

“Greyson?”

“What the f- ouch! REDD!” The urgency in his voice sent a shiver down Redd’s spine.

“Grey! What’s wrong?”

“There’s something in here- I can’t move!”

“Can’t you come back?”

“NO! I CAN’T MOVE!”

“I can’t come after you – there’s no way I can fit there!”

“Come round to the room! NOW!”          

Spurred into action Redd sprinted through the mansion’s corridors, his footfalls heavy against the wooden floors, calling Greyson’s name, trying every door he came across. The majority of the rooms were locked; he had to check which room was which by looking through the tiny keyholes, or pressing his ear to the wood and listening for Greyson’s calls.

Eventually he seemed to find the right one; through a peephole he saw all manner of animals mounted on the walls, their heads masterfully stuck to plaques, dead eyes forever staring into oblivion.

“Grey? Are you in there?” he called through the door, hoping he was right.

“Yes! For god’s sake man, hurry!”

He tried the handle once more; it was definitely locked, and there was no obvious key.

Redd was a stalwart fellow; taller than most, broad shouldered and, despite favouring a wardrobe almost designed to downplay it, quite muscular. Through his nature he’d tended to leave imposing shows of strength to Clay, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t _capable_ of force if the situation warranted it.

He inhaled deeply, before taking a step back and kicking the heavy oak door right next to the doorknob. The latch snapped on the first attempt, and the door slammed open, crashing into the wall and dislodging a stag’s head.

“Greyson?”

“Here! Quick!” There was a knocking from behind one of the wooden panels. He followed the sound, isolating the noise until he was sure he was in front of the right one. 

“How do I-“

“Press the panel in the top right corner. Firmly. You should feel it give.” He did as instructed, feeling silly.

“Nothing’s happening?”

“Oh for fuck’s sake. Hook your fingers around the top edge of the panel and pull!”

He did so and felt the wood yield a little, before coming away completely with a low creak. The internal mechanism scraped and snapped under the pressure, springs and cogs clicking against the wooden floor as they fell. With one final heave he pulled the panel away.

Inside the revealed crawlspace all manner of hunting traps, from tiny mousetraps to huge, malicious looking bear-traps had been laid out, previously invisible in the darkness. Through some miracle, or unlikely skill, Greyson had only triggered a few of the smaller ones, narrowly avoiding the larger traps’ metal jaws. He was now contorted into an odd shape as he attempted to hug the wall; his legs were at an odd angle as he braced against the stone, his neck craned against the low ceiling.

“Why…why are these here?” Redd asked, incredulously. Some of them look malevolently sharp.   

“I don’t know,” a pained voice quipped from behind them, “perhaps someone who thought it was a perfectly secure place to keep old relics he regretted from his hunting days. And perhaps that same someone didn’t want thieves in his walls, and thought this solution was delightfully elegant.”

Redd turned around slowly until he was face to face with the Marquis, dressed only in his nightclothes looking worse for wear.

“And _perhaps_ that person is also one who is trying to cure the mother of all hangovers, and isn’t happy to have to deal with two ne’er-do-wells standing in his trophy room looking guilty as sin. Do you two have _any_ idea how noisy you have been for the last ten minutes? And… why is my door is broken?” He swayed slightly as if he was standing upright through sheer force of will alone.    

“It failed a stress-test,” Greyson said, tetchily, as he unfolded himself from the tunnel, neatly avoiding the remaining traps the practiced skill, less of an issue now he could see them and had a clear route out. The Marquis smiled a humourless smirks as he glanced between the two of them, noting Greyson’s displeasure and Redd’s stricken look.   

“Mr Rockridge, a word, if you please.”

Lucas led Redd aside, placing a slender hand on his broad back, ushering him into the hall. When he didn’t let go, Redd realised he was being used as a rudimentary support. He didn’t comment, and waited patiently for the reprimand he predicted was coming.

“I thought I made the suggestion very clear for you not to get involved with Greyson’s antics?” Lucas said, arching a well-defined eyebrow. Redd cast his eyes to the ground.

“I’m sorry, sir. It’s just-“

“I’m not disciplining you, my fellow,” he chuckled, his tone softening. Redd realised much of the initial exasperation probably came from being rudely woken up. “You’re a grown man who can make his own decisions, and I’m not about to stop you from making this one. But take care not to fall into a trap yourself; it may end up quite painful.”

“I’ll be careful, sir.” Redd said, his voice sincere.

“I’m sure _you_ will be. Do try to keep him out of trouble.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Redd, I’m talking to you as a friend, not your employer. Enough with the “sirs”.”

“Sorry, sir. Lucas.”

“Better.” Lucas let go, relinquishing his support, and walked back to the trophy room on unsteady feet. “We need to have a little catch up, Greyson,” he said. “I’m interested in hearing about how my security can be improved. I’m sure “stronger doors” will be on one of your recommendations.”

“Of course, of course, I wouldn’t dream of exposing weaknesses without also having a solution for you.” Greyson said, with the pomp and ceremony of someone who was selling something. “May I recommend, in future, your traps be stored in one of my patented “Fort Locks” safe-boxes?”

Redd’s eyes were drawn to the room’s only safe, its door conspicuously ajar; he was sure had been locked a moment ago. Greyson winked at him, seemingly recovered from his ordeal now that he was out of harm’s way.

“We can talk business tomorrow,” Lucas said, massaging his temples. “Right now, I’m going back to bed to be tended by a lovely lady. And, gentlemen, if you plan something like this again, which I’m sure you undoubtedly will, consider not waking the entire house with your yelling?”

“I’m sorry,” Redd said, “That was my fault.”

“Yes, it was. Good afternoon.”

Redd watched as Lucas shuffled back towards his bedchamber, dragging his feet, hands outstretched as he used the walls to guide him. Greyson was busy detangling a rogue mousetrap from the depths of his beard.

“Well, that was eventful,” he said, finally freeing the trap. He unceremoniously tossed it back into the crawlspace, watching as it set off a chain reaction of metal snapping on metal.

“I had no idea that tunnel would be so dangerous,” Redd said, wincing at the noise, his imagination filling in the gaps of what it would had been like for a person to be in the middle of the ricocheting traps. 

“It’s always a risk,” Greyson said, shrugging. “People with the best treasure have a tendency to be malicious bastards. Next time, we’ll bring a light.”

“Is it worth it? The risk, I mean.”

“Of course! What’s a little scar or two, after all, considering the reward?”

Redd frowned, folding his arms across his chest, not quite sure if he agreed. That could have gone so, so much worse. Greyson seemed to catch his troubled expression and placed a hand on his arm.

“Redd, you’re overthinking this. In all seriousness, no harm was done, I’m fine, and we are one step closer to finding that egg.” 

“But-“

“But nothing, man! I’d consider this little jaunt a resounding success!” He gave Redd’s arm a reassuring squeeze, smiling, inviting him to join in on his confidence.  

“Next time, we check for traps first, okay?”

“Deal. You know, Redd, I don’t usually go in for having a partner in crime, but gods, am I glad I had you around.”

“Well, get used to it, I guess? Lucas officially charged me with keeping you out of trouble.”

“An impossible task! Trouble is my middle name!” Greyson laughed, beaming as he puffed out his chest, all pride and attitude. He glanced at the broken panel on the floor. “Good lord! That was solid oak. You tore through it like it was paper!”

“I guess you could say… that I have strength in spades?”


	5. Chapter 5

The ill-effects of the morning after the Marquis’s midsummer party were becoming a distant and hazy memory, the mansion slowly returning to its usual state of being exceptionally busy and full of life. Lucas often said that the mansion was like a person; it lived and breathed as much as anyone who crossed its doors, from the staff who worked tirelessly behind the scenes to the guests bringing wealth and prestige. Like a person it had both good and bad days; prosperity ebbing and flowing like the tide. With a spin of a wheel the casino could exponentially richer and Lucas would take the opportunity to procure something new: a chapel, built in the gardens as a wedding gift to Eleanor; an impressive clock tower with a gilded face; a new wing in the theatre. On the days of terrible luck, when the payouts were great or the bills came in, he took his debts on the chin, surrendering parts of himself, his health and wellbeing, to find ways to break even.

In order to minimise his outgoings the Marquis had made two rather significant decisions; the first was to build a small cottage for himself and his new wife on the small plot of land next to the mansion, for the two of them to live in on a day-to-day basis. Whilst he was still as much a feature of the casino as he’d ever been, turning up to the tables to greet guests with a vicious grin and a sharp tongue, Redd noticed that when it was quiet, or the challenges of the casino proved too great, he’d retreat to the solace of that little home. The second was to rent the guest bedrooms to some of the longer-serving staff in order to recoup costs; Redd and Clay had been two such people. They’d moved out of their tiny Oxford flat, each taking a modest bedroom in the guest wings as their permanent abode. They didn’t live like guests; they took their meals with the rest of the staff in the cosy kitchen located deep in the basement, and still worked their respective jobs, but without the arduous commute and vastly more comfortable accommodation their quality of life undoubtedly improved. Greyson was also residing at the mansion, either at Lucas’s request or otherwise living there on his own whims; Redd never asked which it was, but as Clay hadn’t yet forcibly removed him from the property Lucas was probably at least aware of the arrangement.

To Redd’s uttermost delight, since moving into the _Brutale_ he and Greyson were continuing to meet frequently: in the bar, or the theatre lobby, or in the private little nooks scattered about the mansion, all concerning the discovery and subsequent retrieval of the treasure Greyson pursued. He was almost single-minded in his search, focusing his time and attention with utmost dedication. A few months after they first met, after weeks and weeks of following esoteric clues invariably leading to a dead end or yet another narrow scrape, Redd had wondered why he wasn’t getting bored of this particular track, why it still was satisfying to him to aid a would-be thief in his oft-proven futile heist. The answer, which came after a few sleepless nights of carefully thinking the matter through, contemplating all possible reasons before arriving at his conclusion, was startlingly obvious: the pleasure he experienced from merely being in Greyson’s company was so strong that he was forced to concede that his interests went beyond seeking adventure.

In hindsight, it was obvious, and it wasn’t as if he hadn’t considered the likelihood of his sexuality being what it was before; if anything, it was his time at university that first made him deliberate the prospect that he wasn’t interested in women, despite how terribly illegal it would be for him to actually indulge in his preferences. Now, faced with someone he clearly found fascinating and unreservedly alluring, the conclusion he drew in his early twenties about himself was being proven ten-fold.

Once he’d admitted to himself how he felt the world began to take on a rosier hue; despite nothing really changing outwardly, Redd continuing to be the reticent voice of reason and look out for both of their welfare, their time spent together began to feel special. Greyson was so passionate and ardent in all aspects of his life it wasn’t difficult for Redd to take from their daily activities a sense of private intimacy; whenever Greyson would place a hand on his arm, tap him on his shoulder to get his attention, or use him as a support as he climbed onto something, Redd felt a jolt down his spine, a particular pleasure that invariably made him blush. What’s more, there were times when Greyson would use language which bordered on flirting, or he would look at him with such gleeful delight that made Redd wonder if the feelings were reciprocated, and maybe _something_ could work out between them, if only he were brave enough to give the circumstances a little push…

Not that he ever would. Societal pressures and breaking the law aside, his concerns that he would sabotage what relationship they had and his own reserved nature prevented him from doing anything so bold as to tell him. 

* * *

Almost a year had passed; the annual party was looming, and Lucas had organised the celebrations with his usual flair… and recklessness when it came to costs. The mansion received daily deliveries; decorations, ingredients, alcohol, and the pulse of the place began to increase. Redd was surprised, but nevertheless wholly flattered, to find that his name was on the guest list this year; his handwritten invitation had been delivered to his room in a velvet-lined wooden box, complete with a bespoke masquerade mask. It was a rather masculine thing, with an overt ram motif complete with curled purple horns. After trying it on, and admiring his reflection in the mirror, he’d concluded that he would need to get a new outfit to do it justice. 

A few days before the party a familiar car pulled up outside the mansion, conspicuous in all of the other coming-and-goings by being an overtly American model, including being a left-hand drive. Tequila Belle had returned. He went outside to greet her.

Despite parting on a sombre tone, a somewhat unlikely friendship had blossomed between him and Tequila; in the past year they’d struck quite the rapport, writing letters to each other, telling of their respective lives. Redd felt his contributions were the weaker of the two; he wrote of minutiae, the goings-on within the mansion, snippets of gossip he was privy to, or, occasionally, would send her extracts of manuscript, his compositions, hoping for her critiques. She, on the other hand, would reply with wonderful tales of her adventures; stories of the eccentric people she’d encountered, the locales she’d visited. Occasionally she would talk about her feelings, but even without her penning her sentiments Redd could tell that she was much happier than the last time they met. Her vocation was mending her broken heart, and that, in turn, made him happy.

“Redd! Honey, it is so good to see you!” Tequila squealed, dropping her bags and throwing her arms around his neck; he caught her easily, his large hands catching her slender waist and lifting her from the ground.

“Tequila, always a pleasure!” Redd said, spinning her around, a smile on his face. She laughed in delight. “How was France?” he asked as he carefully placed her back on _terra firma._  

“While it was marvellous to get away from things for a while, you know, to clear my head, it’s even better to be back in quaint old England.” She gestured to the well-manicured gardens surrounding the mansion, the neat flower beds and elegant marble statues and fountains. “Thank you so much for your letters – it always made my day to receive them!”

“Likewise. You always sounded like you were enjoying yourself. I would have loved to see you sing at the Théâtre des Champs-Élysées.” 

“But you would have missed the wedding of the century if you had,” she said with a mischievous wink. “I was a little sad to miss the ceremony; I heard it was quite the circus.”

“With Lucas, would you expect anything less?” Redd cast his mind back to the grand affair - the wedding of Lucas and Eleanor Bondes– no expense was spared; it put the regular annual parties to shame. Or, at least, it had set the bar ever higher if the current preparations were anything to go by.

“I can only image the spectacle it was!”

“Well, to be honest, it just the reception that was like that. The actual wedding was quiet; Lafcadio married them right here in the chapel, Reginald was there as a witness… oh, and I played them down the aisle. You were missed; I’m sure they would have loved to hear you sing as they exchanged their vows.”

“Don’t worry hon, I have the perfect belated wedding present for them; I’m sure Lucas will forgive me once he hears the song. Speaking of, I will need to borrow your hands later for the full effect.”

“It would be my pleasure.” 

“Where are the happy couple now?”

“Lucas has just got back from the Caribbean; he’s jetlagged and trying to organise the festivities, though I think he’s mainly getting underfoot. Eleanor… I’m not sure. Probably in the art studio; I’ve not seen her today.” He cleared his throat. "Speaking of weddings-“

She gasped, clasping her gloved hands together, cutting him off.

“You aren’t! You beast, you never said in your letters!”

“Oh, no!” He protested, shaking his head quickly, blushing. “No, not me; Clay.”

“Aww, that’s disappointing,” she said, poking her tongue between her teeth. “You had me all excited. So, who’s the lucky girl?”

“The sculptress, Trinity Carrington.”

To his surprise Tequila started laughing; she threw her head back, her blonde hair bouncing in her mirth.

“That little minx! She never said she was getting married!”

“You know her?”

“Honey, she’s my _sister_.”

“I never knew.”

“Well, step-sister. We don’t see each other often, and her condition makes it hard to write. I try to send her records when I can, and she sends me the most delightful statuettes, you know, prototypes and things. My sister and your brother – what are the odds?”

“Funny you should say that; there’s a story behind how they met.”

“Oh I’m sure. For all she is a sweet girl, she’s sharper than a knife, that one. You’ll have to tell me over drinks; I do love gossip when it’s not about me.” She paused for a moment, bringing her fingers to her lips, thinking. “So, now that you’ve neatly raised the topic, and I’m curious: what about you? You’ve met someone, haven’t you?”

“What? No! Why would you say that?” Redd felt a flush of alarm as he was unable to stop a certain face from filling his mind’s eye.

“Honey, I can tell a love-struck fool a mile away. Well, from a couple of hundred miles, to be exact. There were just a few things from your letters which made me suspect, and your reaction has all but confirmed it.”

“It’s no one,” he said, unable to meet her eye. He glanced around, making sure no one was close enough to hear him. Tequila’s driver was still sat in the car, patiently waiting to unload the rest of her bags; in the distance two burly men were unloading casks of ale into the cellars. No one was paying any attention.   

“Oh, I can’t _wait_ to get this juicy secret out of you.”

His mind was racing. What on earth had he said to her to make her suspicious? His letters had always been about nothing in particular. No one _else_ had commented that his behaviour was any different than it always was; if Tequila saw through him so easily, what other signals had he been unwittingly giving off? Who else suspected…?

She caught his panicked look and her expression softened. “Don’t look so worried, Redd. You can trust me to keep your secrets. Cross my heart.” She traced a finger over her breast, making the sign of the cross.

“Tequila Belle, it is a pleasure to have you return to _The Sexy Brutale.”_ Lucas and Eleanor appeared at the mansion’s front doors, arm in arm. They descended the stone steps towards them, Lucas with his usual debonair attitude, Eleanor smiling warmly, resting one hand on her belly.

Tequila’s face was a picture of glee as she ran to greet them. She kissed Lucas once on each cheek, before doing the same to Eleanor, taking her hands in hers and admiring her rings. Whatever ill-feeling she’d harboured last year seemed to all but evaporated; Redd watched as she congratulated them on their marriage, squealed over the revelation of Eleanor’s pregnancy, and looked thoroughly happy to be back. She briefly turned to him, looking back over her shoulder:  

“Redd, we’ll chat properly later. It’s a promise.”

* * *

Despite the casino being vibrantly busy, filled with the usual regulars, time seemed to slow to an excruciating pace and Redd felt uncommonly distracted throughout his shift; his head just wasn’t on the game, preoccupied as he tried to think what he could tell Tequila. He couldn’t quite pin down exactly which part worried him more; her knowing such an intimate secret about him, a secret which could get him into a lot of trouble if the wrong people were to find out, or just the act of talking to another person about something he’d kept under wraps for so long. She’d surely at least mock him for his preferences, if not be completely repulsed by the idea.

He almost dropped the cards at the end of a round; he was fumbling them in way’s he’d not done since he first learned the craft. A lone ace drifted onto the baize mid-shuffle, carelessly slipping from between his fingers.

“Mr Rockridge! What _are_ you playing at?” An elderly woman asked sharply, pulling her fur stole closer as she rearranged herself on her seat. She looked at him disapprovingly, her thin lips pursed, as he retrieved the lost card. 

“My apologies Madame Richmond. Would you care for another hand?”

“Not at this table; you’ve been practically silent all night. There’s more energy in those Death dealers than you.”

“Terribly sorry.”

“I’ll tell Lucas that his staff have disappointed me tonight.”

“Again, my apologies,” he placated, trying to hide the weariness from his voice.

“And _you’re_ supposed to be the best one here. Very poor service, indeed. If my husband were alive he’d give you what for.”

He let her grumble on; he was no stranger to Madame Richmond’s attitude, and when she was in one of those moods it was best to let her have her say. He knew nothing would come of it, she was just a cantankerous old lady, and it was easier to agree than to argue with her.      

Eventually midnight rolled around; he’d contemplated asking for a double shift, keeping him at the table until morning, but reason and common sense won out – he couldn’t avoid Tequila forever, and it was best to get this conversation out of the way, before the party, than have her bring it up potentially in front of people, or worse, ask around.  

Tequila kept to her word; she’d cornered him as soon as he finished clearing away his table, lying in wait at the roulette wheel.

“Redd! There you are! I was starting to think you were deliberately slow-timing me!”

“Sorry, Tequila, I had a few things to sort after my shift.”

She cashed in her chips, neatly folding the stack of notes into her handbag.

“It’s not a problem. So, shall we?” In a smooth movement she took his arm, her dainty hand resting on the crook of his elbow.

“ _Must_ we?” he asked, feebly wondering if he would be able to talk his way out of it.

“Yes! If nothing else you can play for me. I’ve missed spending time with you.”

She ushered him to the first floor, to the music rooms. Their private domain. They sat in her lounge, the private room gifted to her from Lucas. In the soft light the piano gleamed, but they made their way towards a small seating area in the corner.  

“Now, honey, you wait here whilst I get us those drinks; it seemed we have more to catch up on than I thought! I’ve been wondering who on earth this mystery woman could be all evening.”

She left him at the seating area, vanishing to her dressing room to ring the bell for a server to attend them.

Redd ran a hand through his hair, his mind racing, thinking about what he could possibly say to her. The truth was out of the question, but a plausible lie would be equally difficult for him to come up with, if for no other reason she’d see right through it in an instant.

Tequila returned with a server in tow, holding two cocktails balanced on a silver tray; the liquid was a deep red colour, with frothy pink foam on top, and swirling in the glass was a dark ribbon of some viscous liquid. The server placed the drinks on the table before disappearing into the shadows, far enough to way to give them privacy, but close enough to come when called.  

“So, Redd Rockridge is in _love_! Ooh, I want all the details!” She sat gracefully on the sofa next to him, placing her manicured hands on his knee, her eyes sparking in the dim light.

“I said earlier, it’s nothing,” he muttered, not meeting her eye and taking a long drink from his glass. It felt like drinking a glass of liquid silk; it warmed his stomach.

She laughed, shaking her head.

“Nuh-uh, I don’t believe that for a second. “Nothing” doesn’t make you turn that delightful shade of pink. My, Redd, you’re blushing like a sinner in church.”

Redd glanced over to her; despite her grin he saw no malice in her face. He sighed. Who knows, perhaps he could get a little off of his chest, even if he could never tell her the truth.

“Look…” he paused, before taking another gulp of his drink. “You can’t say _anything_. Not to anyone.” He drained his glass, and glanced over to the server; he dutifully returned from the gloom. “Dry martini please. And…?”

“Whiskey sour, on the rocks.”

The server bowed and left them truly alone.

“Go on?”

“Nothing is happening. And nothing will happen; I intend to keep it that way.”

“Oh, you’re going to be vague, are you? Okay, I’ll play this game with you.” She rested one elbow on her knee as she leant forward, resting her chin in her hand. Her piercing blue eyes met his as she searched his face for a clue. “Let’s see. Is she married?”

“What on earth are you talking about?”

“That’s it, isn’t it!? That’s why you’re being so unforthcoming about it all.”

“No!”

“I can picture it now: you met here at the casino, maybe she’s a high roller, and she won your heart as well as the game… but you later found, out after a dalliance, that she’s married… and now you’re trying to keep that it ever happened quiet from her husband.” Tequila fashioned the story with a glint in her eyes, filling in the details as she went along. Redd couldn’t tell if she was joking or not. He coughed, clearing his throat.

“You have a vivid imagination.”

“Oh, goodness! It isn’t Trinity, is it?! Knowing what I do about your brother, I imagine Clay would _kill_ you!” She sat up, her face a picture of incredulous shock.

“No!”

“Oh! Oh, no, Redd honey… Eleanor? And isn’t she pregnant?!”

“Honestly, Tequila, I haven’t had an affair with a married woman!” Redd said, trying hard not to raise his voice and only partially succeeding. How could she be so wrong, and he be in such a situation that he couldn’t correct her? The only saving grace was that she was confident he was smitten with a woman. Well, of course she would; she had no reason to suspect otherwise. It seems he’d at least been careful about _that._

“Imagine the outrage! I can see the papers now – “ _Scandal at the Sexy Brutale! Marchioness Eleanor Bondes in illicit affair with croupier”_ ”

“… You came up with that far too readily. But again, no. Nothing like that. Do you honestly think I’m that sort of man?”

She stared at him for a moment longer than he was comfortable, before she nodded, yielding to his protests.

“Yes. You’re right. I know you’re not like that, really. I believe you.” She took another sip of her drink, sitting back in her seat, her brows knitted together in thought.

They were interrupted, briefly, by the server returning with their fresh drinks. Redd’s didn’t even touch the table; he knocked back the entire thing in one go, feeling the gin and venom burn his throat and his head spin. It wasn’t the smartest way to drink, but he needed all the Dutch courage he could get if he were to survive this encounter.

“Let me think,” Tequila continued, having finished her cocktail and moving on to her whiskey. “Why else would you hide being in love… and worse, why would you say “nothing will happen” between the two of you…” she cocked her head to one side, inspecting his face. “Oh! _Unrequited_ love?”

“That... is closer to the mark,” he admitted. That was safe enough to say, right? He was starting to regret drinking so quickly; he was starting to get a buzz in the back of his head, a certain light-headedness which made his words slur and his mind dull. He’d have to watch his tongue.  

“Oh thank goodness. I mean, not that it mustn’t be absolutely horrid for you, but that’s better than the alternative.” Tequila said, her expression relaxing into a knowing look of solidarity. “Okay, okay, so: do you know each other?”

“What do you mean?”

“Do you talk? Or interact in any way?”

“Well, yes. Lots. We’re good friends. Which is why I don’t want to do or say anything; I don’t want to ruin what we have. I could lose everything.”  

Tequila made a small noise in her throat in understanding.

“Maybe not? She might have some feelings for you, too.”

“Not like this. I think I’d know.”

Tequila laughed, a rich musical sound.

“Oh honey, you aren’t exactly the sharpest when you know a girl is crushing on you.”

“Excuse me?”

“Redd, I’ve heard how popular you are around here; half the girls here think you are just the most fascinating thing. And, well… you never paid me the slightest bit of mind despite my feelings towards _you_.”

“ _You_ …? But, I thought, Lucas?”

“Yes, yes, he… stole my heart away. But there were times before then, when _we_ were together in the music room when I thought… maybe…? Anyway! Don’t make this about me! I want to hear about your sweetheart.”

“Sorry. I didn’t know you felt that way.”

“Exactly, so how can you know that this mystery lady isn’t secretly in love with you too?”

“They… aren’t exactly the sort of person to not act if they want something.” He let out a small self-depreciating smile, “they’re pretty much the opposite of me.”

“Oh! Well, they say opposites attract. Tell me more about her!” Tequila settled against the cushions of the sofa, watching him from over the rim of her glass. Now that the possibility of scandal, in her mind at least, had dispersed she looked almost tranquil, ready to listen.   

Redd thought for a moment, closing his eyes briefly as he allowed himself to think of Greyson, of all the little things which were so tantalisingly appealing. His easy smile, his intense dark eyes - even picturing him now was making his heart skip a beat. He couldn’t, of course, answer entirely truthfully, but a few choice words would maybe quench Tequila’s thirst for gossip, and if he were careful with what he said, he wouldn’t necessarily incriminate himself. He took a deep breath.

“He-“

“Redd? Redd!” Greyson’s voice echoed through the adjacent music room. Redd inhaled sharply; he sat up straight, alert, focussed despite the alcohol. In his haste he knocked over his empty glass; he quickly picked it up, placing it upright on the table. He glanced over at Tequila, aware his face would be likely crimson; she didn’t seem to have noticed, having turned her head towards Greyson’s voice, looking a little puzzled as to who would think to look for them here, in her private music room.

“Grey! In here!” Redd called, raising his voice in the dim light of the lounge, willing his blush to die down. For all he was startled, he was genuinely happy to see him.  

A door opened and a moment later Greyson appeared, sauntering over to their seating area as if he owned the place, his thumbs hooked into his belt loops. Redd couldn’t contain his smile – an automatic reaction to seeing Greyson – as he approached.

“Where the devil have you been? I expected you to have finished work hours ago!”

“Greyson, this is my good friend, Tequila Belle. Tequila, this is our head of security, Greyson Grayson,” he introduced, standing up, fighting the slightly awkward feeling of having the two people he was probably closest to meeting in this way; it felt far too formal, but what else could he say?

“Oh, were you looking for Redd? It’s entirely my fault, I was hiding him away in here,” Tequila said her tone deceptively sweet, likely masking annoyance at having her opportunity for gossip cut short. Redd was relieved; with Greyson being present, a relative stranger to her, she’d be unlikely to be able to continue her line of interrogation now.  

She offered her hand to Greyson; Redd watched as he eyed her suspiciously, but he dutifully took her hand and kissed it.

“Grey, Tequila has recently returned from France; she’s here to sing at the party in a few days.”

“Ah, yes, the annual shindig. I’ve been invited myself this year. Jolly good party, that one.”

“Would you like to join us?” Tequila purred, gesturing to the vacant seats, “I’d love to hear more about what has been going on at the _Brutale_ , and Redd is keeping some terribly juicy details from me. Perhaps you could help fill me in?” She summoned the serving staff with a small gesture from her hand to take another drinks order.

“As long as I’m not interrupting anything,” Greyson said, his reservations about Tequila waning as he chose the seat next to Redd. Redd felt acutely aware of his proximity, and whilst Greyson’s presence was reassuring, he still felt like he was walking on a knife-edge under Tequila’s gaze.

“Not at all.” Tequila casually waved away the possibility that he wasn’t welcome. They ordered their drinks, Redd ordering another martini and vowing to drink this one with more care. “So, Mr Grayson; I’ve been a little out of the loop for this past year, and I feel I’ve missed out on so much! I’m sure as head of security you’ve seen all _sorts_ of things.”

“Of course I have! This mansion has a great many secrets, Miss Belle, and I know almost all of them!”

“Do tell! I _love_ secrets.”

“I’m surprised Redd hasn’t already told you the best of them! He’s been with me nearly every step of the way.”

“Oh? Has he, really?” She flashed a look to Redd; he looked away.

“He’s been invaluable this past year, I don’t know what I ever did without him.” Greyson patted him on the back, a good-humoured gesture he’d done before, but for some reason his touch was positively electric. There was something about how his hand lingered half a beat too long; of course, not in a way which could be misconstrued as anything other than a display of friendliness, but enough to ensure that Redd's face turned a delighted pink. He hoped he could pass it off as the alcohol flushing his system, but for all Tequila often appeared quixotic and careless, an image she occasionally promoted when it suited her, he knew she could be incredibly astute. The cogs were turning right now; she was putting two and two together, and Redd was sure she was about to arrive at the devastatingly _correct_ conclusion. 

“It’s been interesting, certainly,” Redd said, trying to steer the topic in a last ditch attempt to keep her from realising exactly who he’d developed feelings for. “This mansion has all manner of tunnels, moving bookcases, safes behind paintings…”

“I can’t believe you left all of this out of your letters!”

“Good lord, did you? I would have thought that would have been front and centre!” Greyson exclaimed.

“I thought news of Lucas and Eleanor’s wedding was more prudent,” Redd said mildly, in his defence.

“Nonsense!” Greyson said with a laugh. “Marriages happen all the time. A hidden treasure; now that’s worthy of writing about. _Especially_ if you write about how best to acquire said treasure regardless of its current ownership status.”

“Mr Grayson! You aren’t a thief are you?” Tequila giggled, her eyes full of mischief.

“I prefer the term treasure hunter,” he said with a wink and a roguish smile, “And given who Redd’s brother is, I’m sure he does, too.” He nudged Redd’s arm, grinning.

“You have no idea how much grief Clay gives me for associating with you,” Redd admitted with a small smile. “He says you make his job a hundred times harder.”

“As is my right! I _am_ head of security! I have to make sure the bouncers are doing their jobs, keeping out miscreants and troublemakers.”

Redd snorted at the irony.

The server returned with their orders; during the momentary upheaval, as empty glasses were collected and fresh drinks laid on their table, Redd and Tequila’s eyes met.

“It certainly sounds like Greyson’s been keeping you busy. You seem to be jolly good friends…” she said, her voice low, barely above a whisper, her hand held close to her mouth partially obscuring her lips.

“Yes?”

“And he’s pretty much the opposite of you… And Redd, you slipped up earlier. Just a little.” Her eyes flickered over to the momentarily-distracted Grayson, then back to Redd.

The colour drained from his face; he felt a cold dread start in the pit of his stomach, spreading through his chest as a grip of anxiety took hold. He rarely swore, he found it incredibly vulgar, but right now some of the more uncouth expletives he’d picked up from his brother came to mind.

“Good lord, man, you look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Greyson said, his face a picture of concern as he saw Redd’s expression. "Are you quite all right?"

“Ha ha it’s nothing! Just the alcohol going to my head,” Redd said, forcing a smile, trying to mask his panic. “I guess I can’t hold my drink!” Contrary to his words, Redd picked up his martini and swallowed it in one mouthful, the tremor in his hands spilling some of the liquid as he brought it to his lips.

Tequila said something, but he wasn’t listening. She _knew_.


	6. Chapter 6

In the thin light of the pre-dawn the moon had begun to lower on the horizon, the stars almost invisible in the murky grey sky. Thick rolls of mist curled around the mansion like tendrils of a particularly invasive vine, obscuring the gardens and muting the flowers’ vibrant colours, making the statues seem to float on an invisible lake of vapour. 

Redd had left Greyson and Tequila during an opportune lull in conversation, but had decided to not go back to his room straight away; instead, he staggered outside to the impressively immaculate gardens behind the ballroom. He clumsily made his way down the stone steps, his heart lurching in his chest as he took a misstep; he caught himself before sprawling face-first onto the flagstones. Crisis averted, but not trusting his balance, he sat heavily on the cold concrete, resting his broad back against the cast-iron of the flowerbed railings. He was vaguely aware of the dampness seeping through his shirt and trousers, likely staining the fabric, but that was a problem for tomorrow.

He was far more inebriated than he’d intended to be, especially considering his earlier vow to watch his tongue; his vision was incredibly blurry, and his head felt far too heavy for his neck to support. The early morning air was deliciously cool against his face; the mist was leaving a fine spray against his clammy skin, and the railings felt icy against his back. Despite this momentary relief his head was spinning, the world tilting in front of him.

The mist swallowed all sound; it was too early for the dawn chorus, and indeed all wildlife seemed to cease their noises, leaving him totally alone with his thoughts. 

What a _night_ … he’d somehow survived it, in no small part thanks to Greyson’s timely arrival; once he’d had a drink, and somewhat warmed up to Tequila, he’d taken his usual place in centre stage. With the skill of a natural-born performer he’d filled any silences with bombastic stories of his past escapades; he was even surprisingly candid about his stint in prison. Tequila had seemed enthralled; laughing, pressing for more details, completely bewitched with Greyson’s effortless charm, which in turn made it easier for Redd to avoid all further conversation by persistently focussing on his drink.

But, it had all come a little too late; Tequila had already worked out what he’d been so cautious about keeping from her. She’s said he’s slipped up, but he couldn’t for the life of him think how. He’d been so _careful_ , barely saying _anything_ to give himself away, and yet she’d figured it out. So, now what?

His main hope was that she’d stay true to her word and keep his secret. He had no real reason to suspect she wouldn’t, but there was a very real worry that by the time he returned to work tomorrow… later today… the entire mansion would know what was probably the most private thing about him, and worse, he could have unintentionally implicated Greyson as well. How he felt was so terribly _illegal_... what if he was asked to leave…? No, that was unlikely; Lucas would almost certainly be lenient, or else turn a blind eye entirely. Indeed, it wasn’t as though the Marquis wasn’t without a blot on his copybook, and he, infamously, had a soft spot for people who were a little peculiar, or were criminals in one way or another.

Redd drew up his long legs to his chest and rested his forehead against his knees. Fighting a wave of nausea he sighed heavily, taking deep breaths of the morning air until the unpleasant sensation passed. He’d not drunk this much in a long time; he’d forgotten how potent the venom cocktails could be.  

Right now he needed to go to bed, sleep off the alcohol, and then deal with whatever fallout there was in the morning. As much as he was dreading what that could possibly could be, thinking so much about what _could_ happen was ridiculously counter-productive. When he was sober he would sort everything out; he could catch Tequila in the music room rehearsing at some point and have a quiet word with her, pleading for her discretion. If he was too late for that, and rumours were already flying, he’d give Clay a heads-up; despite their many differences he could always count on his big brother to watch out for him, defend him if necessary. How to deal with Greyson was a hell of a lot trickier. On the one hand, Redd hoped with every fibre of his being that he wouldn’t find out, that he wouldn’t hear any rumours that had managed to spread, or at _least_ would be polite enough to ignore them. On the other hand, maybe the best course of action would be to tell him upfront, head off gossip by being frank and honest.

Redd sighed. He’d decide in the morning. Bracing himself against the stone he scrambled to his feet, heavily leaning on the railing as he hauled himself upright. He felt a little better; the fresh air must have helped.

Returning to the main building he carefully picked his way through the ground floor, passing an ornate grandfather clock which informed him that it was presently a little past five o’clock. The casino was presently filled with a strange mix of people; some hadn’t yet been to bed and were resolutely trying One Last Time to win their fortunes, and some, looking comparatively fresh-faced and cognisant, had just arrived for their first games- and drinks- of the day.

He eventually reached the grand staircase leading to the guest bedrooms, the banister impressively sweeping to one side, stretching seemingly endlessly upwards. He reached his door, the journey thus far being more laborious than it had any right being, and fished out his key from deep within his pocket. After fumbling with the handle and latch for what seemed like an age he realised that his key wasn’t turning because the door was suspiciously unlocked.

He pushed the door ajar, and was surprised to find the lights on, a fledgling fire recently lit in the grate chasing away the chill of the early morning. Greyson was sitting at his desk, a glass of a deep amber liquid in his hand, idly picking through one of Redd’s old university textbooks. He looked up as Redd entered, his eyebrows knitted together with concern.

“Redd! There you are; I wondered where you’d got to. You looked sick as a dog when you left the lounge.”

“Yeah… I didn’t feel too great… just needed to go for a walk, clear my head. Well, it was more of a stagger, really...”

“A little deep in your cups, are you, old chap?”

“That’s… rather an understatement,” Redd admitted, slumping into his armchair, sinking into the soft leather and enjoying its rudimentary comfort. He grinned, despite himself: “never mind a cup: right _now_ I think I’m drowning at the bottom of the barrel.”

“I think you're scraping the bottom of it for your witticisms.” Greyson placed the textbook on the desk and began to stroke his beard, teasing the curls.

“True, true… I’m not exactly a barrel of laughs right now.” Out of the corner of his eye he saw Greyson fight back a smirk, but it was quickly suppressed.

“Joking aside, are you alright? You’ve been out of sorts all night.”

Redd blinked in mild surprise; he hadn’t thought Greyson had noticed, considering how much he’d been the centre of attention for most of the evening.

“Me? No, I’m _fine_. I’ve just had far too much to drink,” Redd said, clumsily waving his hand. “Alcohol may be the rose coloured glasses of life, but right now I’d give anything to see straight.” He smiled, but from what he could see from the corner of his eye, with his vision blurred and askew as it was, Greyson looked unconvinced as he took a sip of his drink, sitting back in his chair at Redd’s desk.

It took Redd a moment to register why the situation seemed strange to him, until it dawned on him in a startling instant. It was _where_ they were right now that was so odd; for all they met, frequently, privately, in the various corners of the mansion, Greyson had never come to his room before, not even to seek him out.

“Grey, please don’t take this the wrong way, but… why are you in my room…? There are no treasures here, no secret panels, trapdoors, hidden switches or clandestine eggs…” Even as he spoke the drink-addled part of him was trying to convince him of the possibilities of the situation; they were alone, in a rather intimate place… the realisation made him feel rather giddy.

“Well, I was hardly going to wait in the corridor, was I? It looks suspicious for a gentleman to be loitering outside of the guestrooms at this time of night.”

“I can honestly say I wouldn’t know… though I’m sure there are more than a few individuals in this mansion who would.”

“You surely aren’t casting such an aspersion on our employer?”

“Right now? I can’t even pronounce the word,” Redd snorted. “I think my vocabulary has been reduced to that of my brother’s...”

“God, you _are_ drunk, aren’t you?” Greyson said with a smirk. 

“Well, maybe not that bad.” Redd closed his eyes, resting them for a moment. A thought struck him: “Where’s Tequila?”   

“The young lady retired to her room not too long ago. She seemed in high spirits, so you don’t have to worry about her.”

“Like her namesake? _Tequila…. High spirits_ ….hah, that’s a good one; I’ll have to remember that…” Redd chuckled, “So, did you talk about anything interesting?”

“Redd, _everything_ I say is interesting. After you left she spoke about you, actually. Or rather, was asking about you.”

“…what did she say?” Redd opened his eyes, sitting up slightly straighter in the chair.

“Singing your praises, mainly, and she wanted to know my opinion. I think she was trying to be artful about the whole thing, but Miss Belle isn’t nearly as shrewd as she thinks she is; I think she’s infatuated with you.” Greyson finished his drink, placing the empty glass on the desk.

Redd laughed under his breath.

“No, no trust me; I’m just her pianist. She’s more the type to fall for the one who owns the piano. And Tequila is more astute than many give her credit for… underestimate _her_ at your peril.”

“Is that so? Well, I’d be more inclined to believe you if I wasn’t so certain that you’re both hiding something.”

Redd wondered if it was jealousy he heard in Greyson’s tone, or perhaps interest in Tequila…? He glanced over to him, trying to study his face, read his expression, but a combination of tiredness and intoxication prevented him from focusing properly; he could tell Greyson was looking at him rather pointedly but the subtle details were totally lost on him. Reading people was a skill Redd prided himself on, but right now he was at a total loss.

“I’m not hiding anything…“ he began, shifting uncomfortably in his seat, trying to look and sound sincere in the face of a blatant lie. He didn’t even sound convincing to himself; he sure as hell wasn’t persuading Greyson.

“You know, Redd, there are two types of people in this world. People like me, self-confessed rogues who can spin a yarn with all the ease of breathing, and then people like you, honest to a fault and absolutely terrible at lying.”

“I’m sorry, Grey. Look, it’s nothing. Everything’s fine-“

“And you would tell me, if it weren’t?” Greyson interrupted, leaning forward in his seat, serious and attentive. Redd found himself caught under his razor-sharp focus, a scrutiny that threatened to expose everything he’d tried so hard to keep concealed. He’d only ever seen Greyson display this level of concentration over his various treasures; it was terrifying and exhilarating to be subject to it.  

Redd paused, bringing a surprisingly shaky hand to his face and rubbed his temples. Greyson wasn’t going to believe him no matter how much he denied it, but, what else could he do…?

He _could_ tell him… chalk it up to the alcohol, and just say exactly what had him so distracted. Hell, he might not get another opportunity, another moment when he would have such an excuse to throw all caution to the wind and take that step towards the unknown. For a moment, it _almost_ seemed like a good idea, if he trusted his tongue not to stumble over the words…. 

“Nothing’s wrong.”

Greyson sighed, and the electrified moment passed.

“In all seriousness, Redd, you’ve got me worried.”

“Don’t be. Anyway, it’s _my_ job to worry about _you_. Lucas said so.”

“Hmm.” Greyson said, a low noise in his throat. He stood up, and as he passed Redd’s chair placed his hand on his shoulder. Redd inelegantly reached up and gripped his fingers, giving them a reassuring squeeze. He gazed up at Greyson, his head slumping on the backrest, their eyes meeting despite his view being partly obscured by Greyson’s beard.

“As much as Lucas jests that you’re keeping me out of trouble, my fellow, don’t let it be to your detriment. Something’s been bothering you all night, and I’d wager that Miss Belle is involved somehow.”

“You’re too quick to throw away your money. Sorry, Grey… I just… need to sleep. Or be violently ill. Jury’s still out on which right now.”

Greyson shook his head.

“Fine, fine. I’ll call the staff, get you a bucket or something if you’re going to upchuck everywhere.”

“Thank you.”

* * *

 

Against all pessimistic expectations, but to Redd’s uttermost relief, the next day passed without incident, though he had a rather stay-of-execution feeling about the entire thing regardless.

He’d awoken a little past noon, fully clothed and sprawled on top of his bedcovers, feeling worse for wear and with only the vaguest recollection of how he’d got there after distinctly remembering falling asleep in his chair. His neck was almost unbearably stiff, and his head was pounding, but he otherwise felt better rested than he had any right being considering the sheer quantity of alcohol he’s imbibed the night before. 

In order to make himself as awake and presentable as he was going to likely going to be that day he took a much-needed bath; one benefit of the mansion being a paradigm of excess was that, at the request of the Marquis, the ornate porcelain tubs were actually built for two people to bathe simultaneously. For Redd, this meant that they could actually accommodate his size and muscular build, allowing him to be totally submerged in the scalding water if he wanted. He’d also taken the time to property shave, removing the raspy day-old stubble that shadowed his chin and neck. The razor he was using was new; the blade glided over his skin, and after using the fancy shaving soap and aftershave in the bathroom, he felt thoroughly pampered.

Once he’d dressed- certainly looking like a gentleman even if he still felt rotten inside- he’d taken most discrete route he knew down to the kitchens for a much-needed cup of tea, where he had run into Clay having his lunch at the heavy wooden table.

“Afternoon, bruv, how’s the hangover?” Clay greeted with an infuriatingly _knowing_ smirk as Redd entered the small, smoky room. A copper kettle whistled from the stove and there was a district smell of freshly-baked bread.

“All right; could be worse,” he said, bracing himself for the expected teasing. Clay didn’t mince his words.

“I ‘eard you got absolutely fuckin’ shitfaced with Tequila last night.” Clay said, swigging his tea with a glint in his eye. “And yet you _still_ didn’t manage to pull. God, you’re no Casanova, are you?”

“Clay!”

“What? It’s true, ain’t it? The whole mansion is talking about it.” Clay’s voice was primed for some good-natured ribbing, and he didn’t bother hiding his grin at his brother’s obvious discomfort.

Redd glanced at the doors, half expecting someone to be stood there, but they were, at the moment at least, alone.

“Look, what have you heard? I need to know.” Redd poured himself a cup of milky tea, added a sizeable spoon of sugar, and sat down at the table opposite Clay.

“Why? What’re you so worried about? You ain’t the first bloke to crash and burn with her. I must admit, though, I thought you ‘ad a chance.”

“Please, Clay,” Redd said, with a sigh. “What are people saying?” Clay’s expression shifted from one of teasing humour to one of perfect composure.

“Nuffin you need to bovver yourself with, to be ‘onest. Some of the staff saw you stumbling from one end of the room to another this morning as you were going to bed, _alone_ I might add, and one of the barmen said that he was serving drinks to you and Tequila last night. I just put two an’ two together, that’s all.”

“Good.” He said, relaxing. The tea was reviving him, and at least the rumour wasn’t the worst thing the mansion could be talking about.  

“So, go on? What _‘_ appened?”

“ _Nothing_ happened. We had some drinks because she’s just returned from France, and she wanted to catch up. I drank far too much. That’s all.”

“’onestly, bruv, you’re bloody useless with women. I would’ve thought Tequila would’ve been all over you.”

“Yeah, well… I never had a shot with her,” Redd said, resorting to puns out of habit. Clay laughed heartily.

“Hah, I see you 'aven't lost your sense of humour! Well, never mind, you can always try and pick up a new bird at the party tomorrow.”

“Mmm” Redd made a non-committal sound, rubbing his eyes before glancing at the clock. He’d got an hour before he was due to host _Baccarat chemin-de-fer_. He wanted to go back to bed.

“Oh yeah, did I tell you?” Clay said, taking a huge bite out of his sandwich, talking with his mouth full. “Me an’ Trinity are going to be guests tomorrow too. She’s arrivin’ later on today, and we are moving to one of the proper fancy suites.”

“Do you have any plans?”

“Well, yeah. But we’ll be at the party for a bit too,” Clay said, waggling his eyebrows suggestively. Redd rolled his eyes.

“I really don’t want to know.”

“Oh, lighten up. So aside from your fuck-up with Tequila, how was your night? Was it at least worth the hangover?” 

Redd thought back to last night, especially to his rendezvous with Greyson; he’d been in his room. He’d been _worried_ about him. Redd was genuinely touched about his persistent concern, though he was a little put out that Greyson had seen through him the way he had. He’d always been quite proud of his ability to hide his emotions, and in the space of one evening two people had seen through his guise in some capacity.

That said, if nothing else, the evening had confirmed his affections past any point of deniability.

“Overall… not a loss, I think.”

* * *

 

It was less than a day before the party was due to begin, and the remaining guests had begun to arrive in earnest. Their assorted cars pulled up in front of the mansion, and they, along with their various entourages, were escorted to their rooms by the mansion’s butlers and porters in readiness for the grand celebration. Redd recognised most of them; old regulars, even older friends, and otherwise people who had been coming to these parties for _years,_ but there were one or two new faces too.

The architect, Thanos Gorecki, arrived early that afternoon, heralded by the distinct sound of his wheelchair and surrounded by his doctors and personal manservants. He’d greeted the Marquis as he would a son, in that he said a few words before wheeling off in search of a drink, grumbling about it being too cold.

Eleanor’s uncle, Reginald Sixpence, and the previous owner of _The Sexy Brutale,_ Lafcadio Boone arrived together; after exchanging the obligatory pleasantries with the Marquis they both made their way to the chapel. Redd suspected, knowing the two of them as well as he did, that it was likely less regarding matters of the soul and more for the _spirits_ he knew were hidden behind the altar next to the communion wine.

Clay’s fiancée, Trinity Carrington, arrived a little before dinner; it made Redd genuinely happy to see his brother’s face positively light up when he saw her, and how she returned his emotions in kind. To look at them they seemed an unlikely couple; Clay’s physique alone was completely at odds with Trinity’s delicate frame, but to _hear_ them interact was to experience why they were so perfect for each other. Redd was looking forward to having her as a sister-in-law.

An American woman Redd didn’t recognise turned up at dusk; she dressed almost entirely in black, as though she was attending a funeral, her face almost entirely obscured by her long dark hair. Despite after-dinner drinks being in full swing she didn’t stay to socialise, and instead headed straight to her room where she spent most of the night alone; the only person Redd saw her openly and candidly talk to was Tequila. She seemed a rather reserved lady, or perhaps she was merely shy, and this all added to her rather mysterious demeanour.

The final person to arrive was the goldsmith, Aurum Runes; he turned up at the bar just before midnight. Redd knew who he was through reputation only; he’d famously done a lot of work on the mansion – and his family were directly responsible for the creation of about half of the treasures Greyson was interested in- but Redd had personally never interacted the man. He was as tall as Redd, and twice as broad; as hypocritical as it was, Redd found it hard to imagine that such a figure was capable of the intricate and delicate gold decorations throughout the _Brutale_.

Redd had been about to retire for the night in readiness for the celebrations the next day, when he was stopped by Greyson, returning to the bar after being absent for about an hour, looking out of breath and overly excited.

“Evening Greyson. It looks like everyone’s here.” Redd gestured to the mostly-full room; only those absent were Eleanor, who had long since gone to bed, a sensible decision considering her condition, and Ms. Blue, who had never joined them in the first place.

“Oh yes. The party should be an absolutely blast! I’m glad I caught _you_ though.”

Redd smiled; as much as Greyson didn’t mean it like that, Redd never tired of hearing the sentiment.

“Is everything alright?”

“I’ve just had a little chat with one of the porters. Lucas has ordered a number of his prized possessions to be put on display for the party.”

“I imagine so; he does it every year.”

“Well, one of them was definitely the _Moloch Egg_!”

“Really? Did the porter say where it was going to be?”

“The Theatre Brutale. And tomorrow, you and I are going to acquire it!”


	7. Chapter 7

Redd awoke early to a smart knocking on his door, greeted by a member of the Full House staff proffering a bottle of _Dom Pérignon_ champagne and the instruction to arrive at the grand dining hall for breakfast. After pouring himself a glass he spent more than a bit of time getting ready, genuinely wanting to look his best for a party that he’d often been witness to, as both a croupier and pianist, but never been fortunate enough to attend. He’d bought a new outfit for the occasion, chosen specifically to complement his gilded white-and-purple mask. He’d splashed out quite a bit, ordering from a very well regarded boutique in London. He’d initially winced at the price but he had to admit, looking at himself in his mirror, he did look rather dapper in a silk dress shirt, cashmere jumper and pinstripe trousers.

When he arrived at the dining room a little before ten o’clock he was relieved to find the other guests also dressed in their finest, some with a drink in hand, their faces partially obscured by their bespoke masks. Redd quietly admired everyone as he took his seat opposite Greyson; the level of detail in the masks was incredible, exceedingly varied in terms of design, materials and structure, and they all seemed so _fitting_ for the personalities of those who wore them. It wasn’t just the guests who had their faces covered; it seemed Lucas had provided masks for everyone this year, the staff lining the room each wearing Great War gasmasks adorned with a card motif. Whilst this made identification superficially easy, Redd found it difficult to work out _who_ was beneath the masks as each person’s features and voices were distorted beyond recognition.  

It was customary for the Marquis, and now that he was married presumably Marchioness as well, to formally welcome the guests and run through the itinerary, but despite it being their party, both Lucas and Eleanor were conspicuously absent; in their stead one of the Full House Staff gave the official welcome speech.

“Redd,” Tequila said, leaning over from the end of the table and touching his hand to get his attention as one of the staff – Two of Hearts- listed the day’s optional activities. “I’m due to rehearse this evening, and I’d _love_ for you to play for me. I know this is your party too, but would you do me the honours…?”

“It would be my pleasure,” he said, smiling warmly at her and purposely ignoring Clay who was giving him A Look. She looked pleased, beaming with pleasure. This was the first time they’d properly spoken since the other night; he’d meant to catch up with her before the party but she always seemed engaged in conversation with someone else.

“As long as it doesn’t get in the way of our treasure hunting, Miss Belle” Greyson said, leaning forward to see her properly. She waved her hand, dismissing him with a laugh.  

“It will only be for an hour; I know you want to keep him all to yourself, but I’m sure you can spare him for that long, at least!”

“It’s fine,” Redd said, before Greyson could respond. “I’m sure Greyson and I will be finished long before you’re due to perform. I’ll be there, don’t worry.”

* * *

 

After breakfast Redd allowed himself to be practically dragged towards the _Theatre Brutale_ ; Greyson seemed confident in his treasure’s approximate location, leading him with intent to a study tucked away in a corner of the theatre wing. Redd cast him more than one approving glance; Greyson had made quite the effort as well, adorned in an overly stylish morning suit, made all the more ostentatious by being a deep hunter green, and having styled his impressive beard into tight curls.    

The study was dimly lit, cold, and had a familiar stuffy smell of old books, stale dust and polished wood. Its main purpose was to serve as a sort of office for the Theatre, a place to sort out the paperwork for the procurement of new props, hire costumes or set pieces, or even revise the script. As Greyson inspected various nooks and crannies Redd cast a cursory glance to the large writing desk dominating one side of the room. It was strewn with paper; mainly schematics and circuitry, as well as presentation details and notes of the evening’s performance.

At breakfast they’d all been told that the Marquis had organised a show starting at seven o’clock; it was some sort of impressive magic trick that allegedly pushed the boundaries of escapology and illusion. Whilst it was undoubtedly going to be a grand spectacle, to Redd it sounded more horrific than exciting; looking over the hand-drawn sketches Redd hoped they’d be long gone before it was due to start. The descriptions alone made him shiver; as much as he was fond of card tricks and sleight of hand, stunts involving such exaggerated risk seemed unnecessary.

“It must be around here somewhere…” Greyson muttered, running his hand over a wooden panel, feeling for a loose edge. “That crackpot Thanos installed one of my “fort locks” safe-boxes around here and I’m certain the Marquis would be keeping it in there…”

“You’re sure? I’m pretty sure we checked here last month, and the only thing of interest was that huge fireplace in the crossover,” Redd said, glancing up from the desk. Greyson stood up straight, stroking his beard, his eyes darting around, looking for a hint, some clue that he was on the right track.

“Ah HA!” He walked up to the portrait hanging on the wall; he carefully pulled one edge; it swung to one side revealing a large safe. Greyson immediately got to work, turning the dial, his ear pressed against the metal. “Oh Thanos… you’re so predictable. I can imagine him now, so pleased with himself.”

He cleared his throat, his voice taking on a crotchety, elderly tone: “hiding a safe behind a picture! What an idea!” He barked in a croaky voice. “No young whippersnapper would ever think of it! I AM SOOO CLEVER IN MY STUPID WHEELCHAIR!”

Redd laughed at the impression; it was mean spirited, certainly, but Greyson had a knack for mimicking people, and he’d captured Thanos’s tone and demeanour perfectly. 

“He doesn’t sound _entirely_ like that…” Redd began, hiding a smirk with a cough, unable to keep a straight face.

“No, no, you’re right. HOW DARE YOU FIND MY SECRET TUNNEL? I BUILT THIS PLACE YOU LITTLE SHIT!”

Redd laughed as much at the memory as the impersonation; Greyson having his ear bent had been unintentionally amusing, largely because he was utterly unfazed and his brazen attitude further added to Thanos’s temper.

Greyson triumphantly stood back from the safe and theatrically threw back the heavy metal door; it opened with a dull creak. Abandoning the schematics Redd walked towards him, glancing over his shoulder to see inside. He’d revealed nothing but gloom.

“Goddamn it!”

“Oh well.” Redd commiserated. “Where to next?”

“I was so sure! The porter definitely said it was in the theatre!” Greyson shook his head, before turning to face Redd, his eyes positively alight with determination. “Right, Redd, you go check out there, I’ll check back here, and we’ll meet on the stage.”

“Right.”

Greyson vanished into the nearby dressing room; Redd folded his arms and sighed, a little relieved that the safe was empty. As much as _hunting_ for treasure was entirely enjoyable, almost entirely because he spent the time in Greyson’s exhilarating company, he had no idea what they’d actually do if they found it. Surely Greyson wouldn’t want to _take_ it? Stealing from Lucas seemed ridiculously ill-advised, and Clay would probably disown him if he found out he was an accomplice in the theft. He’d always convinced himself that there was no harm in looking, but Greyson seemed troublingly _confident_ that they’d actually find it tonight.  

He casually wandered through the auditorium, carefully picking his way through the elegant wooden chairs and tables; despite the house lights illuminating the area his eyes were nevertheless drawn to the main stage.

Between two metal rods a huge cage was set up right on centre stage, its door open to allow a person to freely walk inside; above it a canopy of malevolent-looking blades pointed downwards with an intent to skewer anyone who was unlucky enough to be caught beneath them – it was almost exactly the same as the plans he’d seen on the desk a few moments ago. The blades swayed slightly in their setting, catching the spotlight as they moved and looking unnecessarily sharp. Whilst the cage was notable enough, it wasn’t that which had caught Redd’s eye. In the middle stood a large mauve egg; it was about the size of a person, heavily bejewelled with gems that glittered in the stage lighting, and covered in delicate golden filigree. Even from where Redd stood he could tell it was the real thing, _the_ treasure they’d spent the better part of a year searching for.

“Greyson! I think I’ve found it!” he called, his voice echoing through the theatre’s acoustics.

“Sweet mother of pearls!” Greyson exclaimed as he appeared a moment later from the dressing room, his face a picture of uncontained excitement. Redd climbed the steps to the stage, joining him in front of the cage.

“I take it this is the egg?”

Greyson didn’t answer; he was almost trembling with excitement.

“Bloody Lucas, I _knew_ he had it!” he said, at last. “That crazy, rich bastard. Do you remember what he said to us a year ago, on my first day here? He’s had it all this time!”

“I’m not surprised. Lucas is as much of a scoundrel as you are.” The egg was rather beautiful up close; it looked exorbitantly expensive and even to his untrained eye he could admire the workmanship required to make such a thing.

Greyson made to take a step into the cage, walking directly under the blades; Redd caught his arm, urgently stopping him.

“Wait! Greyson, wait!”

Greyson spun round, his eyes wide behind his mask as he glanced from Redd’s grip to the egg; Redd had never seen him look with such longing.

“What?”

Redd shook his head, glancing at the cage, the set-up, before loosening his grip.

“Something’s not right. The show tonight… remember what they said at breakfast? And I saw some plans in the study – it’s going to be some kind of awful death-defying escape.”   

“Redd. In all seriousness; this is all time that I could be spending getting a closer look at that egg.” 

“No man, look at those spikes! And those… what _are_ those? Pylons?”

“It’s part of the trick, isn’t it? Look, I just want to get a closer look…”

“Yes but… look, can we just make sure nothing is plugged in, or turned on _before_ you get in the awful death-cage. Please?”

“FINE!” Greyson sighed dramatically, rolling his eyes. “We can make sure this is all off, or disconnected, or whatever.” Greyson turned away, heading back the way he came, although Redd could see it was all done with great reluctance.  

“Thank you.” Redd felt his shoulders relax slightly as he walked in the opposite direction. That could have been a close one; it would have been downright careless to wander into something that was deliberately designed to ensnare.

He heard Greyson laugh from across the stage.

“Hah, I should be annoyed, I mean here we are, finally face-to-face with _the_ Moloch Egg, and you are more concerned about my safety. But, that’s just you, isn’t it? Whatever would I do without you to look out for me?”

“You know it,” Redd called back with a smile. “You can make it up to me later.”

He went to the back of the stage, through one of the doors leading to a crossover used by the actors to get from one side of the stage to the other. Like many parts of the mansion it was filled with paintings and, oddly, Trinity’s statues. He didn’t remember them being here before. It was rather unusual; this place hardly had enough footfall to have something so valuable stashed away back here… 

“Is there anything here…?” Redd asked, muttering to himself as he poked about, looking behind the statues, the discarded prop boxes, and other miscellaneous junk which had been left there. “Anything connected to that cage…?”

Greyson was calling his name. Satisfied that there was nothing linking to the electric pylons from here he went back out to the main stage. At first he didn’t see where Greyson was; it wasn’t until he rounded the cage that he saw him, partly obscured by the thick red velvet curtains. His hands were manacled to the egg’s surface, catching him at his wrists, holding him in place. Greyson seemed unable - or unwilling -to pull at the egg in a way which would potentially break it, and as such was standing stock-still.

Redd approached the now-closed cage and felt a malevolent crackle of electricity; the pylons either side of the cage hummed and Greyson’s beard was starting to frizz from the proximity. 

“Greyson! What… why is the electricity on?!” he asked, incredulously. It wasn’t like this a moment ago. He folded his arms, his brow furrowing in confusion.

Greyson didn’t answer straight away; despite the majority of his face being covered by his mask he looked guilty, his eyes downcast.

“The cage just closed by itself!” He said, refusing to meet Redd’s eye.

Redd sighed in mild annoyance and raised his hand to reach for the cage handle; he immediately withdrew it with a yelp as a spark threatened to jump from the metal.

“Ow! What on earth…?”

“Redd?”   

“I almost got a shock! The cage – it’s got a current running through it. I can’t open it like this!” Redd said, shaking his hand. He’d got a mild shock just from _proximity_ : “How much electricity is being pumped into this thing? My hair is standing on end just being near the door!”  

“I have no idea…” Greyson muttered as he gave his wrists a little tug, testing the manacle.

“Try again?” Redd offered, “try pulling backwards?”

Greyson tugged again, a little harder this time, before pulling with all of his strength to slip his hands backwards through the metal loops. The manacles didn’t give at all, keeping his wrists flush to the egg’s surface.

“It’s not working.”

“Hmm. Okay: can you move the egg at all?”

Greyson gingerly tried to roll it to the side, to knock it over, but it was anchored to the ground; it didn’t move an inch.

“Redd, my hands are trapped,” he said, “really trapped.” There was an expressionless note to his voice, as if he wasn’t quite believing what he was saying. Getting as close to the cage as he dared Redd peered through the bars.

“Can you get to you picks?”

“NO I CAN'T GET TO MY F-“ Greyson’s expression instantly softened when he saw Redd’s hurt expression. “No. I can’t get to my picks!”

“If I could get in there…” Redd mused, “ _I_ could snap those bands, I’m sure.” They looked to be a thin metal, likely quite brittle; it probably would be easier to break those than tear off the wooden panels from the walls, and he’d done _that_ quite easily. 

“And break the egg? Are you crazy? I’ll be fine-“

A loudspeaker burst into life; a loud booming voice, not dissimilar to the Marquis’s, cut into the theatre. Both Redd and Greyson jumped at the sound, looking for the source.

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to _The Sexy Brutale’s_ Showcase of Illusions!”

The voice was quickly replaced by a recording what sounded to be some sort of circus march, a jaunty tune appropriate for a daredevil, or a magician. As a musician Redd found it immediately grating; the music was familiar – he’d played something similar before, for other performances at the Brutale- but it all sounded somewhat dissonant, artificial, and almost unbearably loud.   

“Wait – “show”? No, no show! Don’t start the show!” Greyson’s eyes met Redd’s, his expression transitioning from one of annoyance to uneasiness. “I don’t like this; I am now officially not having fun. Redd, I think I saw those spikes move!”

Redd looked up; the blades were still gently swaying as they’d done before, but now the music had started they’d taken on an even more sinister appearance, if that were possible. Redd felt his heartbeat quicken.

“Okay… it’s going to be okay. I’ll get you out…” he said, more to reassure himself.

“Don’t TELL me you’ll get me out! DO something!”

Redd fiddled with the horns on his mask, thinking hard. The music was distracting him, and he could almost feel the increasing tension coming from Greyson. He took a deep breath, trying to keep a level head. It was going to be fine. He just needed _think_.

“It’s a magic show, right? The magician would have an exit…” He’d seen something in the schematics about it; he thought back to the papers on the desk in the study, deeply regretting not taking in more of the information.  

“REDD, I DON'T KNOW! I didn’t design this insane shit! I just want out, NOW!”

Redd trailed his hand back through his hair as he circled the cage, looking for anything that would be used for the illusion. It was just like his card tricks: pledge, turn, prestige. Same principle, different execution. Lock a magician in an inescapable cage; have him escape through a second exit; reveal him to the audience… there must be another way out other than the blasted door!    

“YES! Grey, look! There’s a trapdoor! It looks like there’s a padlock, but _you_ can pick that easily!” He walked back to be in Greyson’s line of sight with a hopeful smile.

“I could pick any lock in my SLEEP!” Greyson said, rolling his eyes. “MY HANDS. ARE STUCK.” He began to pull at the manacles again, with increasing intensity, repeatedly hitting his hands against the bands. Redd could feel the rise of anxiety; his heart in his mouth, his stomach dropping.

Over the music the distorted voice of the Marquis began to speak:

“Our bold magician is ready to perform his finale. The Spikes of Death descend!” The music picked up in tempo, becoming frantic, and some mechanism had begun to turn. The spikes were rising higher on the stage, being lifted on a pulley or winch of some kind.

“What?! The spikes of WHAT?” Greyson shouted, craning his neck to look up.

“Oh, no…” Redd whispered; he felt light headed. He tried quell the feeling of utter helplessness; it wasn’t conducive to thought.

“Redd, get me out of here! GET ME OUT OF HERE! PLEASE!” Greyson yelled, utterly panicked as he renewed his struggle, trying something, anything to free even one of his hands. He’d abandoned all hope at trying to preserve the egg; he was alternating between throwing his body against it to knock it over, kicking it to break it, pushing with his feet to try and get enough force to break or dislocate his thumbs – anything to be free. The egg didn’t move nor break; he was still stuck fast.

Redd tried once again to approach the cage, perhaps to reach in and break the bands for him, but whenever he got even close to the bars he could feel the throb of electricity, the volts coursing through the metal. 

“Grey!” Redd shouted, trying to get Greyson’s attention; he was continuing his assault, pulling with such strength that the metal was cutting into his hands. “Greyson! Calm down. Please! Listen to me: when you were in the dressing room, did you see anything? Is there anything in there we can use?”

“… yes. YES! Redd, you’re a genius! There was a switch! Maybe that will shut it down?!” Redd nodded trying to maintain his cool despite feeling so unreservedly out of his depth; he knew he was probably failing but the worst thing he could do right now was panic.

“Yes – yes that must be it! I’ll be right back Grey; I won’t let anything happen to you!”

Redd sprinted towards the room he’d seen Greyson come out of; he looked around, his eyes wide. As Greyson had said there was a large metal switch attached to a control panel or console of some kind affixed to the back wall.

“This has to be it!” He said to himself as he grabbed the lever with both hands, snapping it downwards, and holding it in place. “Come on!” There was a mechanical click from the console but nothing else seemed to happen. Through the door the music from the theatre sounded even more discordant than before, eerily distorted. He felt like he was in a nightmare.  

He lifted the switch and tried again, but despite the lever descending there was no indication that anything had changed. “Work damn it! Come on… Please!” Growing frantic he snapped the level up and down, on and off, trying to make it do _something_. His frustration grew. “This makes no sense! What am I doing wrong?”

He looked around the room, scanning it for a clue, something that would help him; it was perfectly ordinary, filled with props, wardrobes of elaborate costumes, books containing scripts and plays. It was all completely _useless_. He turned his attention back to the switch; was it active? Was it even linked to the pylons outside?

“Why isn’t this working? …COME ON! PLEASE!” He pulled the switch one last time, pushing it as far down as it would go, holding it in the ‘off’ position. Over the music, obviously building towards its crescendo, he heard Greyson shout his name.

“Grey!” he called as he ran back towards the stage, abandoning the console to head back towards the cage. “Greyson, I’m sorry! I couldn’t stop it!”

“Redd!” Greyson’s eyes were wild, pure terror on his face; his hands were turning bluish-grey, either from a lack of circulation or early bruising from repeatedly jamming his hands against the metal. The mechanism the spikes were attached had raised to its highest point; it was poised, ready to descend.

The music quieted. A drumroll began.

“I’ll get you out!” Redd shouted, his eyes darting from the spikes to the cage door to Greyson. He had to do something. Anything.  

“Redd, help me!”

He couldn’t stay here and do nothing. He’d tried everything else. He couldn’t watch Greyson die.

“I’ll get you out, I promise!” Redd made to grab the bars. Through the blood pounding in his ears he heard Greyson screaming:

“What… WHAT ARE YOU DOING?! NO! REDD! DON’T! DON’T! NO!!”

There was an impossibly loud bang as something exploded somewhere – a fuse, the circuit breaker, _something_ ; the music died with a cacophonous whine; and the lights cut out, from the spotlight on the stage to the house lighting.

The theatre went dark for a moment before the emergency power kicked in, bathing the stage in a dull red light.

“Redd!”

Redd blinked; he was still holding onto the bars, gripping them hard enough as to make his knuckles turn white. In the gloom he heard Greyson talking to him, though he could barely register the words. Through gritted teeth he braced himself and _pulled_.

“Redd – what are you doing? The door is still lock-“

The latch snapped under his force, the door sliding effortlessly open. “Bloody hell. I forget what a total brute you are.”

“Are you okay?!” Redd asked as he entered the cage, his voice low and shaky. “Let’s get these damned things off of you…” With trembling hands he hooked his fingers under the thin metal of the manacles, snapping them with the ease of breaking a twig.

Greyson snatched his hands away from the egg’s surface, holding them to his chest, rubbing the welts which had begun to form.

“God that’s better…” he began, looking up at Redd. “Thank-“

There was movement above them; Redd grabbed Greyson’s arm and pulled him out from under the spikes. It was rather unnecessary; the knives didn’t descend, the mechanism holding them in place high above the stage.

Satisfied they were no longer in danger Redd let go of Greyson’s arm with a quivering exhale of breath.

“Good God; that was a close one!” Greyson whispered as he looked at the trap from the outside. He turned to face Redd: “I know I’ve said this before, but I’m bloody glad I have you around. I don't want to think about what would have happened if you hadn't been here.” 

Redd shivered at the thought.

"I haven't left you yet," he said, softly. He paused before hesitantly continuing, "Nor do I plan to."    

“Christ knows why, for all the trouble I bring you.” Greyson reached up to undo the clasp holding his mask in place; he removed it without care, and tossed it unceremoniously to the floor. Despite his complexion he looked pale, his hair and beard a mess from residual static.

He turned to Redd and offered him a wan smile. “That’s enough of that,” he said, casting one last look to the cage, the egg, before shaking his head. “Come on, the bar is calling; I need a stiff drink. I’ve had enough drama for today.”


	8. Chapter 8

With only the dull red glow of the emergency lighting as a guide, Redd mutely followed Greyson out of the theatre; he was struck with how ordinary and unassuming everything looked under this light, the cage looking like a cheap magicians prop, the knives outwardly dull, and the Moloch Egg nothing more than a pretentious and gaudy relic. They descended from the main stage in relative silence before crossing the auditorium to reach the lobby. Greyson didn’t look back at the egg once; conversely, he seemed keen to turn his back on it, willingly abandoning it on stage under the canopy of knives as if it hadn’t been the sole object of his desire for the better part of a year. Redd was, in no small part, relieved. He didn’t think he could bear to even be in its vicinity for a moment longer; he certainly wouldn’t have wanted to try and retrieve the tasteless thing. 

Walking through the lobby Redd felt as if he was traversing a dream; his limbs felt numb, nerveless, excessively tired. His is entire body weighed heavily on him as if it wasn’t quite his own, as though there was a great weight pressing down on his shoulders. He was entirely unconvinced about the merits of the promised drink, wanting nothing more than to collapse into the solace his room.

The garishly bright lights of the casino greeted them, evidently unaffected by the power-cut in the theatre; whatever supply serviced that part of the building seemed to be in isolation to the rest of the mansion. Redd felt dazzled, his eyes accustomed to the low light of the stage, and winced as soon as they walked out into the hall.

“I’m glad to be out of there!” Greyson exclaimed, breaking the silence between them, looking and sounding implausibly recuperated. He held open the door to one of the lesser-known bars, a little hole-in-the-wall tucked away at the foot of the stairs leading up to the guests’ bedrooms. In Redd’s experience it usually went rather unused; the theatre-goers usually took advantage of the well-stocked cocktail bar in the lobby itself, and otherwise the majority of the patrons preferred the enticingly dangerous appeal of the _What’s Your Poison?_ bar _._  

Redd hesitated, hanging back with arms folded. Greyson frowned at his reluctance. “Redd?”

“Sorry Grey, I’m going to have to pass on that drink,” Redd said, shaking his head. He was still wearing his mask; he took a moment to untie the ribbon holding it in place, peeling it from his face with visible relief.

“Are you quite alright?” Greyson asked, raising an eyebrow.

“In all honesty?” Redd asked with a sigh, cradling the mask in his hands, idly running a thumb over the gilding. “Not really; the night’s rather caught up with me. I’m going to head back to my room.”

Greyson let the door close, peering at Redd with narrowed eyes, gauging his expression with a puzzled look. Redd looked back impassively, holding on to the last of his poise in the face of what he hoped was just a natural reaction to staring death in the face.

“Well, would you like some company? If nothing else, there’s still a few hours of the party left; we might as well make the most of it, given the night we’ve had.”

“I’ll be fine,” Redd said, trying to mask his numbness with a smile. Normally he would have jumped at the chance, especially given how the invitation was phrased, but even seeing Greyson right now was a reminder of what they had just been through, what they’d survived. He hastily bid Greyson goodnight before turning to ascend the staircase, feeling suddenly unable to look at him directly.

Reaching the guest corridor, Redd’s hands shook as he unlocked his door, trembling so much as to make the key rattle against the metal of the latch. Up until now he’d maintained some semblance of composure, but in the solitude of his room that equanimity threatened to leave him in an instant. Entering his room – cold and draughty as it always was without a fire to keep it warm - he threw his mask on his writing desk, the metal and plastic hitting the polished wood with a clatter.

Greyson’s pleas echoed around in his head; the way he’d repeatedly called his name, to help him, to get him out. The more he replayed the scenario the more he was certain he’d almost watched the man he loved be killed right in front of him.

He raked his hands through his hair as he paced around his room, breathing deeply. He felt vaguely nauseous; his skin was clammy, ice cold to the touch. If the electricity hadn’t failed when it did… he shivered as the gravity of the situation crashed into him like a train wreck. He knew it was suicide the moment he touched the bars.

Where did he go wrong? He couldn’t think what he could have done differently; he’d made the checks, warned Greyson about the cage, done _everything_ he could to prevent that terrible situation from transpiring, and yet they’d both ended up in a situation which had been almost fatal.

There was a knock at the door, a quiet sound, appropriately considerate given the time of night. Redd paused his pacing, his heart in his mouth.

Another knock, slightly stronger, more impatient and direct.

“Redd? Can I come in?” Greyson called, his voice hushed though not without a sense of mild urgency.  

Redd hesitantly opened the door; Greyson stood at the other side of it, his suit jacket slung over his arm as he greeted him with a familiar roguish grin. Redd stared at him, dumbfounded: how could he be so completely recovered considering how close they’d been to death?

“Grey…”

“So, I’ve thought about it, and drinking alone wasn’t how I anticipated ending this evening; I hope you don’t mind the intrusion.” He noted the pallor of Redd’s complexion, his troubled expression and tense stance as he stood aside to let him enter. “Good lord, you look terrible. I think you need that drink more than I do.”

Greyson cast his jacket carelessly over the back of Redd’s high-backed armchair before walking straight to the drinks cabinet. He rummaged around for a bit, inspecting – and commenting on- Redd’s choice of booze before pouring the each of them a decent measure of cognac.

“Here you go; it’s good for the nerves.”

Redd took the glass, though he still wasn’t entirely convinced that, at this moment, a stiff drink was what he needed. He wanted to be alone, be allowed to process his thoughts.

“Thank you.”

“See? I can look after you, too.”

Greyson walked over to Redd’s writing desk and casually leaned against it, threading the stem of his glass between his fingers so that the base rested in his palm, idly swirling the liquid around. Redd glimpsed the mottled bruising around two angry red welts at his wrists, poking out from his shirt cuffs.

“This is much better than being down in the bar,” Greyson said as Redd made himself comfortable in his armchair.

“Mmm,” Redd agreed as he took a deep drink, feeling it pleasantly burn his tongue and throat. He felt a little warmth seep back to his limbs, as superficial as it was coming from the alcohol.

“So, old chap. What’s bothering you?” Greyson asked, glancing at him from over the rim of his glass as he took a sip. “It’s not like you to sulk in silence.”

Redd took another drink, weighing up the merits of discussing what was troubling him against retaining his composure until Greyson eventually left. Indeed, Greyson looked so unfazed by the night’s events that he felt discouraged in talking about how distressed he felt.

“…we nearly died today,” he said, eventually, his voice low. Articulating it made it seem more real; he paused, fighting the residual wave of panic the memory prompted.

“I’ll admit it was quite a scare, but I wouldn’t quite go that far,” Greyson said with a reassuring smile. “What happened in the theatre was just a malfunction, a mistake. I will be having stern words with Lucas in the morning, don’t you worry– I _told_ him this place was falling apart.”

“What? How can you say that?” Redd asked, his brow furrowing in disbelief.

“Well it was, wasn’t it? It wasn’t as though someone deliberately tried to hurt us,” Greyson said with a casual wave of his hand. “And besides, I had confidence you had everything under control. Like always, you managed to drag me out from yet _another_ narrow scrape.”

“How can you be so blasé about what happened?!” Redd asked, shaking his head, feeling a subdued ire beginning to build in his chest at the blatant dismissal. 

“Because you’re taking it far too seriously. You need to stop overthinking this. Heavens, you can’t go through life worrying about what _almost_ happened! If _I_ worried about every single possible consequence like _you_ do, I’d never be able to get anything done.”

Redd’s mouth dropped open; he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“It wasn’t some sort of ridiculous hypothetical, Grey - the worst very nearly _did_ happen!” he retorted, his voice a little louder than he intended, despite the lateness of the hour.

“And yet here we are, having a drink in the comfort of your room.” Greyson said facetiously, raising his eyebrow in annoyance at Redd’s tone. “In my experience, and believe me I have a lot of it, things tend to work out, even if they don’t immediately have the best outlook. I mean, look at what I’ve been through before; I’ve been to _prison_ and yet still managed to land a pretty cushy job working for an admittedly insane Marquis with more money than sense.”

“That is not the same and you know it! We nearly _died_!”

“Nonsense! Hell, man, the worst that actually happened was that _I’ve_ come away with a few self-inflicted bruises, and _you_ got a little shock!”

“I have never been so afraid in my life; I thought you were going to die and I was ready to do whatever was necessary to prevent it!”

“What on earth are you talking about?” Greyson said, his expression superficially apathetic.

Redd stood up, visibly agitated, his shoulders tense. 

“Grey, when I grabbed the bars, I didn’t know the electricity had been shut off,” he said, his blue eyes wide, determined to make him understand. “I couldn’t just stand there and wait for those spikes to fall! I thought, maybe if I could just open the cage, I could…” his voice caught in his throat; he looked away in frustration.

“Even so-“ Greyson began, shaking his head, though he started to look uneasy. Redd interrupted him:

“I don’t understand why you are being so pig-headed about this! Why can’t you accept that what happened down in the theatre was almost fatal?”  

“Because it wasn’t! All’s well that ends well, and all that.”

“Stop... stop being so dishonest! This wasn’t like before; not some silly escapade where the worst that happens in getting told off by Lucas, or Thanos, or Clay! This wasn’t some slap on the wrist!”

“Redd…” Greyson said, faltering as Redd began to pace in unadulterated anger.

“You don’t get to sit there and flippantly say that everything was okay, that _is_ okay! I _heard_ you back there! I heard how panicked you were when you were trapped, when those knives drew upwards!”

“I’ll admit it was a tad chilling-”

“There you go again. Greyson, stop being so bloody selfish and admit what happened!”  

“Selfish?”

“Yes! Acting like you don’t _care_ … you are completely undermining everything… everything I did...”  

“No, I’m not. I’m… I’m _glad_ you were there-“

“You don’t get it, do you?” Redd choked, his voice hoarse. Taking a step forwards he drew himself up to his full height, making rare use of his tall, imposing figure. The only reason he wasn’t the prize-fighter of the family was that he chose not to be.

Redd felt a flush of heat, a sudden _need_ to make Greyson see, to show him what he’d been keeping under wraps for all this time.

“Grey, I was ready to die for you!”

In the heat of the moment he pressed a rough kiss to Greyson’s lips. He felt him gasp, a surprised note in his throat at the contact; Redd held the kiss for as long as he dared, trying to hold on to the feeling, the sensation of Greyson’s mouth against his.

It all passed too quickly, and the rush of impetuousness waned, leaving behind all too familiar embarrassment and apprehension. The charged tension in the room evaporated. He pulled away, a deep blush rising in his cheeks. He picked up his glass from the low table and swallowed the remaining contents in one gulp.

“What on earth was _that_?” Greyson whispered looking stunned, shocked, his fingers touching his lips in disbelief. Redd turned his head away, unable to meet his eye.

“Grey… I’m sorry, I…” he stumbled over his words, feeling unreservedly mortified.

Greyson was staring at him, putting him under that same scrutiny he felt the other night, that intense focus; he felt unbearably caught under the gaze that threatened to peer into his very soul.

“This is what you were hiding from me, isn’t it?” he said, his voice level, emotionless.

“Yes.” There was no point denying it now, although he felt himself flush at the admission. He might as well finish what he started. “I’m in love with you… I’m sorry.”

Greyson pushed past Redd, his expression unreadable as he grabbed his jacket, leaving his drink unfinished and not closing the door behind him in his haste to leave.

Redd mutely watched him go, not daring to call after him, to follow. Of course his feelings wouldn’t be reciprocated; it was entirely unreasonable to even hope that Greyson would have the same inclinations as him.

In one evening he’d survived a near-death experience, and had driven away the one person he was closest to.

He rested his head in his hands, his deep sigh turning into a shaky sob. 

* * *

 

The midsummer party continued well into the night, and although it was largely contained in the ballroom and the casino, vague snippets of music and laughter would occasionally filter upstairs to the guest bedrooms. At around four o’clock in the morning Redd was sure he heard Clay’s familiar voice, closely followed by a giggling Trinity, both of them trying not to make a noise and failing terribly as they drunkenly made their way to their suite.

Dawn was approaching and Redd hadn’t managed to sleep; every time he closed his eyes a memory of the previous evening would come flooding from the depths of his mind. Greyson trapped in the cage. Grabbing the bars, knowing it would be his death. Telling Greyson how he felt, and the inevitable rejection.

To pass the time he’d tried to read, and when that failed, tried to write, to put into words the evening’s events, and when _that_ failed, he attempted to compose. That was by far the most successful venture, and went some way to clearing his head, though the tone of everything he created was woefully morose. Eventually satisfied that he’d put together enough to play he headed towards the music room, despite the lateness of the hour, deciding to put into practice the hours of tortured composition.

The music room was empty, shadowy, and rather uncharacteristically untidy; it seemed Tequila had had her revue without him, but the revellers had left the lounge in an absolute state. There was even broken glass scattered on the floor, likely from a dropped wineglass or tumbler, the shards glinting against the carpet in the lamplight.

Sitting at the grand piano he traced his hands over the keys, feeling the cool sensation of smooth ebony and ivory under his fingertips. He took a deep breath and began to play a sombre song which echoed his heart; he felt the ghost of tears prick at his eyes, though he wouldn’t let them fall. He segued through the minor chords, the soft melody singing of loss, heartache. He occasionally stopped, adding in a new section, amending the manuscript, playing the song over and over until it was as close to perfect as he could get.

After a while there was a shadow at the door, a lone figure idling in the doorway.

“Sorry if I woke you,” Redd called, his voice atypically gruff. “I didn’t think anyone was awake enough to hear me. I can stop if I’m disturbing you.”

“I wasn’t asleep.” Greyson said as he entered the lounge, still in his suit though he looked rather dishevelled, more so than the last time Redd saw him.

“Grey!” Redd faltered, creating a discordant tone as his fingers slipped. He stopped playing, snatching his hands away from the keys.

“Don’t stop on my account; I heard the piano from the bar and specifically came to listen to you play,” Greyson said as he approached. He saw Redd’s panicked expression and paused, looking hurt. “What’s with that look? If I didn’t know any better I’d say you look terrified of me.”

“Sorry.”

“Wait, you are? My fellow, after everything we’ve been through?”

“I was afraid I’d scared you off. That I’d sabotaged our friendship,” he admitted.

“Don’t be stupid.”

Redd didn’t say anything for a moment; taking in the little details. Greyson looked _tired_ ; dark bags were under his eyes and he was without his usual confident poise and swagger, instead, his shoulders slumped, his head bowed.

Redd cracked his knuckles – a terrible habit, but one he occasionally resorted to with stress- and sighed; he might as well continue, it wasn’t as though this evening could get any worse. He placed his hands back on the keys and began to play; instead of the self-indulgent sullen melody from before he played something softer, symphonic and pleasant.

“I like this one. You played this a few days after we met.”

“I did. It’s one of my favourites,” he said quietly. Greyson come close to the piano, leaning his back against it, closing his eyes as he listened. Redd continued through the piece, putting in his heart and soul into his playing.

“I was thinking about earlier.” Greyson said, his voice low, barely above a whisper.

“…oh?”

“Everything you told me… it’s kept me up all night. You must think me a blind fool. How long have you been feeling that way?”

“I’ve always _liked_ you,” Redd said, his voice low as he continued to play, not dropping a note. “Others may call you a reprobate, or a scoundrel-”

“And they’re right,” Greyson interjected, with a soft laugh, “I’m no gentleman.”

“-but I’ve always had a bit of a soft spot for you. And, well, the more time we spent together, the stronger that feeling became.”

“I see. And it was enough to put yourself in harm’s way for me.”

It almost felt dreamlike, playing the piano like this whilst Greyson listened, both being completely honest. Their conversation was fragile, subtle, aided by the music.   

“When I thought I might lose you…” Redd faltered slightly, his hands slipping on the keys, but he swiftly recovered, replying the missed notes and bringing the song back on track. “I couldn’t bear it.”

“Redd… in all honesty, I don’t want to see you hurt as a result of my actions.” Greyson said with a sigh.

“It was my choice. Don’t get me wrong, I was _terrified_ … but the alternative was far worse.”

Another pause. Redd concentrated on a particularly tricky part of the song, his fingers trilling over the higher notes.

“I never expected you to kiss me.” Greyson said. Redd blushed.

“I’m sorry,” Redd said, lowering his eyes to watch his hands as he played. His heart was beating painfully in his chest. It was a stupid, unthinking action. 

“Redd. This… this is going to sound bloody ridiculous but…” Greyson paused, opening his eyes; Redd could see them shining in the gloom. “This entire year you have been jolly good to me. You’ve had my back despite my reputation, and got me out of more than one predicament… I’ve always appreciated that.”

“I meant what I said back in the theatre. I don’t plan to leave you, if you still want me around.”

“I don’t think there is a single blasted person in this entire mansion I’d _rather_ have around.”

Redd paused his playing, his hands trembling too much to continue, his heart in his mouth. It sounded too good to be true. Another silence; Greyson didn’t seem inclined to continue talking, to confirm what Redd was hoping, or to deny it.

“Grey… I can’t keep this up. Not now, after everything that’s happened…” he trailed off with a sigh. He steeled himself, meeting Greyson’s gaze. “You need to tell me if I’m being foolish… or not.”

Greyson didn’t respond immediately. He turned his back, hiding his face, his countenance. Redd stared at the back of his head, his breath caught in his throat.

Greyson turned, and in a single step closed the distance between the two of them; he cupped the side of Redd’s head and leaned into a hesitant kiss. Redd tensed, his fingers gripping the piano edge. Every nerve, every inch of him was aware of this moment, this second. He felt Greyson’s fingers lace through his hair, acutely was aware of the scent of his cologne, his taste, his touch.

“That should be enough of an answer,” Greyson said, resting his forehead against Redd’s, his voice low and breathy. Redd shuddered. It seemed unreal, so utterly unlike a scenario that could possibly happen that he felt that it would slip away in an instant.

“Grey… are you sure…”

“Never been more sure in my life.”

Redd felt his face break into a bashful smile. He reached up to brush his fingers against Greyson’s cheek, feeling a grip in his heart as Greyson leaned into the touch, closing his eyes.

“Redd, the song you were playing when I first came into the room… you wrote that, didn’t you?”

“I did. It’s the first time anyone has heard it.”

“Could you play it again for me?”

“Of course.”

Greyson stood back, but didn’t entirely let go; he kept one hand on his shoulder as if not wanting to break contact.

Redd shuffled his manuscript, and felt suddenly shy as he started to play the piece he’d spent all night composing, the reflection of his heart. At first he felt a little clumsy; his fingers slipping on the keys. Greyson squeezed his shoulder, a sign of reassurance, and he found his rhythm, not missing a note.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, and I am done! I hope that it has the conclusion everyone was hoping for, and suitably meets expectations! It was an absolute pleasure to write, and it was so wonderfully satisfying to have a happy ending for all involved :D 
> 
> The sequel is now completed as well! Originally the sequel was just going to be shameless PWP, but as I began to write I found there was a story to be told, from Greyson's POV no less, which I couldn't resist delving into :3

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Four in Hand, Forever in His Heart](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14304492) by [Rydain](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rydain/pseuds/Rydain)




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